


All These Bright and Shiny Things

by ProfessorDrarry



Series: Christmas Fic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16795747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Several questions assault him at the same time; how long has he been under investigation like this? Who is looking for him? Is England seriously planning on finally seeing through his absolutely terrible disguise just to drag him back?Why on earth does Harry have this number?





	1. December 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's an advent fic but it's the least advent-y fic ever. Oops.  
> Unbetaed and unfiltered - embrace the commas like the disaster pirates we are.  
> Happy Holidays!

The shop is busy. It's hardly surprising when you consider that it's the first of December and Middlefield is in the middle of its famous Christmas markets. Still, it's busier than expected and it's starting to get a bit irritating.

Draco had woken up prepared for the crushing throng of people, but it's only half eleven now and yet he's almost certainly _done._

Unfortunately, the tiny witch in front of his register firmly disagrees, as she stacks volume after volume up in front of him and batters away.

He pastes on his best service smile and rings through her third copy of _Sailing into the Carpet Revolution_ by PJ Weatherby, finds out this one's for her “ _other niece, the one who isn't overly kind but tries her best, bless_ ”. He puts it into her already overflowing paper bag and helps her pack it into her trolley. She waves until she heads out the door to the chime of the damnable tinkle bell.

When it chimes again, Draco shouts “You're late!” over the din without even looking up. He gets a snort of laughter as an answer, telling him his assumptions were correct.

“Four minutes,” a distinctive Irish lilt shouts back to him. “Keep your tights on.”

He waits for Hex to make it back behind the counter before wasting his scowl. He pulls his apron over his head and hands it over.

“I assume it's been a madhouse, judging by your stellar mood?” Hex takes the apron and shoves it over his head.

“I'm going out,” Draco retorts, flipping a wave to Kinshuk, who is up on a ladder, pulling down a tome in the Mysterious Creatures section.

The air outside is strangely charged; they're going to have a storm and the knowledge makes him grumble. He'd walked in today. If it rained, he was getting wet. His wand was at home in its storage locker.

He kept the fact that he rarely carried it these days a closely guarded secret. It would hardly be safe for him in the streets if people knew.

The fact, however, was that he didn't see the point in carrying it.

What point was a wand when your magic was too weak to even reheat a cup of tea, let alone Apparate?

He sticks a cigarette in his mouth as soon as he’s behind the building, staring up at the smattering of fire escapes on the Muggle buildings that efface Limerand Row and crushed them into this tiny corner of Limerick which still somehow manages to house a good majority of the wizards in the city.

The buzz of a mobile sounds in his pocket just as he shoves the cheap pink plastic lighter he carries back on top of it, and he smiles as the _private number_ label flashes on the tiny screen.

He flips it open and says, “Hi Arsehole.”

“One day it won't be me,” a voice laughs from the other end. She sounds far away and tinny, and just as he always does, he feels instantly lonelier.

“Three people have this number, Pansy. And you're the only one who fancies herself important enough to block her number.” His smile broadens as she laughs again. He forces himself to laugh too, pushes the pain and the distance back down to the side of his stomach where he stores it.

“That's why I'm calling, actually,” she continues. “There's someone looking for you. Here, I mean. Not there. But I've had three separate emails asking if I know where you are. I wanted to let you know.”

Draco tries and fails to push the panic out of his voice when he replies.

“What did you tell them, Pansy?”

“Same thing I always do, darling,” Pansy sighs. “That Draco Malfoy is dead.”

Draco exhales the smoke he'd been holding throughout her reply and watches the curling trail collide with the raindrops that have suddenly started to fall.

“That he is,” he murmurs. “That he most certainly is.”


	2. December 2

Most days, Harry is glad he doesn’t work at the ministry anymore; he doesn’t wake up to the blare of an alarm, he doesn’t have to jump at the beck and call of the insistent pager that they had always had to carry around, and he doesn’t have strangers bursting into his office all day just to see his scar. Yes, most days, you couldn’t pay Harry enough to go back to the Ministry. 

Today is not one of those days.

His mug of tea has grown cold where it sits on his desk, his computer has been blinking back and forth between the screensaver for twenty minutes. He hasn’t been able to move since the email came in over a half-an-hour ago. 

If he were still at the Ministry, he’d have a thousand and one tasks to draw his concentration away from perseverating over the subject line. He’d have Urgent Memos that needed his Urgent Attention. He’d just be generally too fucking busy to be worried about one email. One subject line, truth be told;

_Whereabouts of Draco Malfoy, inquiry_

The name was one he hadn’t heard in nearly three years. And the word ‘inquiry’ brought back strangely tense memories. The whole thing made him cringe. Plus, the contents of the email brought him no comfort; some private solicitor trying to track down Malfoy for an ‘important family matter’. All of it had led to Harry being very much distracted from his current manuscript. 

Instead of trying to move on, he finds himself opening a response email, the blank cursor blinking an accusation at him while he tries to compose a response. The words that flow from his fingers bring a high blush to his face. 

_To Whom it May Concern;_

_I don’t know how you got my name in connection with Draco Malfoy, but I kindly ask that I not be contacted about this matter again. I, like everyone else in the wizarding community, have had no contact with Draco Malfoy since 2003, when he vanished from his family home. Our connection before this time was tenuous at best. Even if someone does know about his current location, it would not be me._

_I can only assume that it was Ms Pansy Greengrass, nee Parkinson, who suggested you contact me. In the interest of ending the line of questioning before it begins, yes, Malfoy and I did have a relationship of a personal nature. Yes, that relationship did end on complicated terms. However, I have never_ had _any details whatsoever about his plans before or after leaving London._

_Should you require further information, I request that you to go through my solicitor or publicist; I will include the information below._

_Regards,_

_Harry J Potter, Executive_

_Stag and Blossom Publishing_

Harry saves the email without sending it and violently pushes back his chair. He paces as it hits the ground with the wheels spinning, an ever-growing panic rising in his throat. He can’t help but wonder if the rumours that Draco is dead have resurfaced. Or if they have information they didn’t have before. Either way, it could be a problem for them both. 

Before he can stop it, a wave of sick takes hold and he only just makes it to the waste bin in time before the years of interrogation catch up to him and he finds himself dry heaving. 

The biggest issue he will face if this all comes to light isn't that he will be questioned again. The problem, of course, is that Draco _isn’t_ dead. The crux of the problem is that there are only three people on the planet know this for certain. 

And Harry is definitely one of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. One day soon you'll have more information. 
> 
> It just isn't today.


	3. December 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm posting at midnight my time...what, it works, right? And I can't sleep. So everyone wins.  
> Intentionally a very short chapter. Please forgive :)

By the time Draco gets back to his flat, it's half four and he's soaking wet. He has also, however, finished his Christmas shopping. Sure, it doesn't ever take him long since he really just has meaningless tokens to get people for the most part. A new pair of fingerless gloves for Kinshuk to wear when the shop gets cold. A fancy ale for Hex. A couple of boxes of strange tea flavours for Karlene, who will inevitably tell him he shouldn't have and that he's the best boss in the world. It's an old joke, but he appreciates it; there is no illusion that anyone else in charge, even if Karlene's name is technically on the lease. He has also found a beautiful unbreakable glass apple that he can wrap up to surprise Meagan with if she ever gets back from her mysteriously long vacation.

Only four gifts, but it’s satisfying to be finished the odious task. He hates having to stay in the ally after his shift is done. He's glad to be done and home but he's also exhausted; traipsing up to the third floor feels like an insurmountable chore that he quickly completes.

He finds Ghost at the door, meowing like he hasn't fed her in the past year. She immediately rubs herself against his legs and he can't help but chuckle as he dumps his parcels and scoops her off the floor.

“You great sodding lump,” he teases as she flops to her belly immediately in his arms. “If your mummy ever comes home, I'm telling her you're a disaster cat. Don't you think I won't.”

He plops her on the counter with a loving scratch and busies himself with her dinner as he absentmindedly pushes the play button on the blinking machine in the counter. He doesn't even bother skipping through the four messages for Meagan that he finds; she'll call in eventually and pick them up herself. It's nicer if it stops blinking in the meantime.

Her knitting group, wondering if she'll be back for the scarf exchange. Her optometrist reminding her of the appointment she has the next week which she definitely won't be making. A boy who speaks in heavily accented English telling her that the second she comes back to Peru, he'll marry her and make her a happy wife.

Draco is still laughing when a halting voice comes on the machine and sends ice into his veins.

“Meagan?” it says tentatively. “Frig, I really hope this is still your number. Why do you only have your _number_ on your machine? Whatever. It's um… it's Harry? And I wouldn't be calling except… Listen, there's someone here trying to get a hold of Dr--they're trying to find him, Meagan. I don't know why but maybe give me a call when you get this? Someone should warn him, I think.”

The message clicks off a few seconds later and there is a whirl as the tape rewinds to the first message spot. Draco is frozen with his hand on Ghost's head; she isn't exactly thrilled about it and it takes her leaping out from under it to jolt him back to the present.

Several questions assault him at the same time; how long has he been under investigation like this? Who the fuck is looking for him? Is England seriously planning on finally seeing through his absolutely terrible disguise and drag him back?

Why on _earth_ does Harry have Meagan's number?


	4. December 4

Having done all he can to deal with the whole Malfoy issue, Harry spends most of the next morning properly on task. This morning, he has three meetings in the office that take him to lunch, where he swings into the shop to give George the books he’d ordered for his twins. He takes a break at the Rusty Nail, eating a hasty pot pie that is too hot and too salty.

The problem hits once he is finished his last meeting of the day—with a curmudgeonly editor who he should probably sack soon—and he is suddenly in charge of his own time again. He compulsively checks his email on his computer at the office, finds nothing, and breaks down. Jamming his scarf and coat onto his body, he swings out of the building into the weak afternoon sun and Apparates away from Diagon before he can think the better of it.

In Ottery-St-Catchpole, the light has already faded and it’s almost dark by the time he hits the stoop, even though it’s only half four. He doesn’t knock because he never does; he hangs his coat on an empty hook and toes off his boots as he calls into the dim entryway, not even pausing before he careens into the living room.

“Ron?”

“Hare?” a voice calls back from the kitchen. “Hey, mate! Tea?” “Guess so,” he answers, settling onto the sofa and worrying his hair. He’s already unsure of being here and he hasn’t even seen Ron yet.

“Did I know you were coming?” Ron says with a smile as he appears with two mugs.

“Nope.” Harry shrugs as he takes the tea. “I- Sorry.” “Pfft,” Ron answers, settling into a chair. “You can come by whenever, Harry. Don’t be daft.”

“Rose?”

“She’s upstairs. Hugo too. She got home a few minutes ago, promised to start her homework.” Ron rolls his eyes with an affectionate smile. Rose, at ten, is both of her parents combined; smart and just a little bit more devious than is healthy. Harry nods and takes a deep breath. Ron’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”

He studies Ron for a moment and sighs before saying, “Ron. How far does our ‘no questions asked’ pact go?”

Ron’s eyebrows knit further together before he fishes his wand out of his sleeve and casts a gentle Muffliato. “As far as I can let it while still technically being law enforcement?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “That’s what I was worried about.” “Harry, you’re worrying me. What did you do?”

“Nothing. Yet. Or… I’m not sure.”

Ron hugs himself close, stares at the ceiling. “Maybe… speak in hypotheticals?”

Harry nods. “Okay. I can try. So… _hypothetically_ , if a solicitor asked me for information on an open investigation. And I _knew_ something about said open investigation. But I said that I _didn’t_ know anything—”

“You want to know if, hypothetically, you’ve broken a law?”

“Basically?”

“Huh,” Ron muses. “I mean… probably not? Unless there is a subpoena involved. If it was just a request, and not from an Auror....”

He shrugs and drops his arms. “Okay,” Harry exhales. “Do I want to know?” Ron asks, concern badly masked as interest.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.” Ron opens his mouth to push him into speaking; Harry knows because his face takes on that Auror seriousness that Ron had carefully cultivated for many years. But before he can ask more the front door swings open behind Harry and small feet pound down the stairs at the same time. Ron drops the spell discreetly as commotion ensues.

“Mum!”

“Uncle Harry!”

“Harry!”

“Mum?”

Were he not a little rattled, Harry might have laughed at the scene before him. Hugo, tugging on Rose’s jumper, is wiggling his way down the stairs. Hermione is standing at the door shaking the snow off her coat, and Ron looks perplexed as to why she is there. It’s all very classic Weasley and it warms his core despite his disquiet.

“Hey Hermione,” Harry says sheepishly.

“Thought you weren’t coming home?” Ron says to her at almost the exact same time.

“I didn’t think I was either, but I’m starved.” She checks her watch as she takes off her shoes.

She sounds frazzled, but she doesn’t look it; her hair is still perfectly coiffed, her tidy black dress and long burgundy blazer are still pressed, composed and coordinated. He knows it shouldn’t, but it always shocks Harry a little bit to see her like this. In her role of Undersecretary, poised and in charge. It’s so counter to her demeanour from what he knows of her, high strung and bedraggled. He loves both sides of her equally, and it gives him great pleasure to see her flourish as who she was meant to be. He loves his friends, even if he, very occasionally, ends up a little jealous of their happiness.

“As it is,” she clarifies, “I only have twenty-two minutes before I have to go back for that damn board meeting.”

“Lucky for you, I made tea already,” Ron smirks. “Rose,” he says warningly with a backward glance. “Homework.”

“Mum,” Rose replies, ignoring Ron’s glare, “Dad cast that spell he does when you two don’t want me to know something.”

“Rose,” Hermione warns. “Don’t tattle on your father. He’s an adult. He can cast whatever spell he wants to. Go. Homework. You two can eat later.”

Rose sulks a moment but heads back up the stairs. Hugo bolts his way after her, though he gets a stern warning from her just as they leave earshot that he ‘may not be a nuisance while I’m working’. Harry finally bursts out laughing; he’d been holding it in throughout Rose’s dispute, but hearing her sound just like her mother does him in. Hermione smirks back at him as she settles onto the sofa and lets her eyes slide closed.

“I thought you had to eat quickly,” Ron teases.

“Oh yeah,” Hermione murmurs. “In a moment.”

“I got you,” Ron chuckles, disappearing into the kitchen after pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Why Muffliato, then?” Hermione asks gently.

Whether it is because Hermione is not an Auror, or if it’s because her eyes are closed and she seems less threatening, Harry decides to answer her. Not just answer, but _answer._

“Someone is looking for Draco,” he says simply. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to get arrested by covering for him.”

Hermione, obviously, snaps to attention. Just in time for Ron to return to the room with three plates of fish, beans and rice floating in front of him. The plates settle beside each of them, but Hermione whips around to Ron.

“So is Harry going to get in trouble for this thing with Draco?” Hermione demands.

“ _Draco_?” Ron hisses. “The solicitor was asking about _Draco_?” “Might not have gotten to details yet,” Harry admits, taking the plate so that it stops bouncing against his chest and taking a large bite of piping hot fish to avoid having to speak for a moment. “Harry,” Hermione says cautiously. “He’s… I mean, isn’t everyone pretty sure that…”

“Yeah,” Harry says without meeting her eyes. “That’s the problem. They want information about him.”

“And?” Ron asks.

“And…” Harry replies, looking up at them both. “And I know where he is.”


	5. December 5

Draco wakes up from a strange nap he hadn’t meant to take in an odd twisted position on his couch, the cat folded carelessly on his stomach. He has jolted awake because the buzzer for the door is ringing wildly, buzz after buzz. He is immediately wary but he gets up to go to the intercom anyway.

“Yes?”

“Open the door you git, it’s bloody freezing,” an angry voice shouts into the loudspeaker. It’s unmistakable who it is, but Draco falls back on years of caution.

“Meagan?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes, you dolt. Who else do you know with _my_ accent who knows this number and where the flat is!”

Draco unlocks the front door and picks up Ghost; he doesn’t want to risk her bolting again when the door opens and she sees Meagan.

The tromping footsteps a few moments later sound so comfortingly like the angry, giant blonde American woman he has come to know and love that a smile fights its way through his sleep-deprived confusion. The cat knows it too and starts squirming in his arms.

When she flings the door open, a waft of incense and a flurry of colours briefly assault him as she throws down her bags and bundles them both into a hug.

“Hello, my love,” she says to Ghost. “Hi, my lovely Drama-Foy,” she adds to him.

“That has never been less funny, Meagan,” Draco mutters miserably into her shoulder. “I think someone is—”

“Looking for you?” she finishes, pulling back to look at him. “Yes, idiot. Why do you think I’m here. I heard Harry’s message.”

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed. Come on. Let’s go get a drink,” she says, rolling her eyes and hooking her arm under his. “You can tell me the whole story. The _real_ story. It can be my Christmas present.”

“I already got your present.”

“Draco,” she says sadly. “I have been very patient. I am a very good bizarrely distant cousin, I think you’ll find. Now. Out with it.”

Draco finally sighs, pulls her gently to a stop so he can face her and hug her fiercely. 

“Honestly, Meg? I really need to tell someone,” Draco admits, sagging against her before directing them both back to the kitchen.

For the next hour, over tea and the macarons that Meagan pulls from her bag at the first sign of trouble, Draco finally tells someone everything.

He doesn’t even cry; he’s too tired for that.

When he finally finishes, Meagan fishes her mobile from her skirt pocket and hands it to him. .

“What?” Draco asks expectantly.

“Call him,” she prompts.

“Call who?”

“ _Harry_ ,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

Ghost hops onto the chair where he has been sitting for the past hour and stares at Meagan belligerently. She looks so betrayed and angry for a feline that they both start laughing. Ghost simply turns her back to Meagan and settles down on Draco’s lap, bumping her head into his hand until he pets her and she starts purring.

“Draco,” Meagan insists. “Come on. If I can deal with the Wrath of Ghost, you can call Harry.”

“And say what,” he groans. “Hi, I know you haven’t heard from me in over two years, but please don’t tell anyone where I am, thanks, goodbye?”

“Well.” Meagan shrugs. “Since you’re asking, I have a better idea.”


	6. December 6

Harry attempts to put everything out of his mind. He spends Wednesday making cookies for the biscuit exchange that he's signed up for again at the care home. He ices tiny bells and puts crackle topping on his sandwich cakes. He adds shimmer glitter to the wings of the Royal icing swans. He's not an amazing cook, but God does he love baking; he sometimes hears Aunt Petunia’s voice in his head, telling him it isn’t right for a boy to bake, and it only fuels him to become more creative, more delicate, more unnecessarily intricate in his endeavours. The act relaxes him and he forgets about Draco for about four hours.

He only remembers, in fact, when his mobile rings from where it had silently been sitting on the kitchen counter for days. He's sort of surprised it still has a charge; no one ever calls him on it. He hasn't touched it in almost a week.

He takes the tree he’s decorating with him and absently says ‘yup’ into the phone as he flips it open. He promptly drops it on the floor the second a voice on the other end of the line replies, a severe and distant voice being brought into his kitchen without warning or preamble.

“Open your floo,” it says harshly. “I’m coming through.” The line goes dead and Harry quickly decides, perhaps incorrectly, that he has no choice but to open the floo. He closes the wards on the great fireplace before him and hastily scoops the crumbled mess off the kitchen floor, just as the fire blares to life.

The man that tumbles uncharacteristically clumsily out of the grate is barely recognisable. The tattoos covering his forearms seem to have quadrupled in number and, although they are beautiful and full of intricate detail, they only barely hide the scar that Harry knows lies beneath them and fills them both with unnecessary shame.

This hair, too, has been carefully selected to take him as far away from his childhood features as possible; the bottom is closely undercut, the long top died a pale pink which---against all rules of nature—suits him immensely. It adds an air of danger and adventure to the classically aristocratic features that had once been a point of pride, twists them into uncomplicated beauty. It’s obviously intentional; Harry suspects Draco feels significantly less pride in the extremely Malfoy-like nose and high Pureblood brow these days.

As he straightens up out of the floo, Harry and Draco lock eyes. Neither speak and neither advance. From the outside, it may look like lions starting to circle each other, and Harry can hear a snarl rising in his throat that he doesn’t allow to make a sound. They stare at each other for what would be a strangely long time under normal circumstances but is probably not long _enough_ under these ones.

Finally, both speak at the same time.

“Are you baking?” Draco demands.

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Harry declares. He waits for Draco to continue. When he doesn’t, Harry gets annoyed. “Why the hell are you here right now?”

“I… it was too much to talk about over the phone.”

“It?” Harry says scathingly. “ _It?_ ”

“Harry, please.” Draco looks tiny and lost. Harry sighs, pacing the room, but gestures to a couch. Draco sits, reluctantly, and takes a moment before he speaks again. “I’d start with an apology,” he begins, “but I’m not sure it’s what you want.”

Harry bites down on the cookie in his hands to stop from screaming, despite the fact that he will now have to make another dozen to replace this missing one.

“Do you know who it is?” Draco asks.

“You know I don’t,” Harry answers before he’s even done speaking.

“I’ve missed you,” Draco continues.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left.”

“I had no—”

“Don’t, Draco,” Harry interrupts. “I don’t want to hear it. I told them I had no idea about your current actions. Rest assured. Are you coming home?”

“Not yet.”

“Then we have no more business here,” Harry says shortly. He stands and moves towards the floo. Draco, sighing, steps back towards the hearth.

“I…,” he says slowly. “I’ll tell you everything. One day. I meant that.”

“Oh, I know, Draco,” Harry answers, turning back to the kitchen. “But the question is… by then, will it be too late?”

Draco nods, the entire set of his body resigned to the current outcome; he’d tried to convince Meagan that standing in front of Harry was not going to solve anything at all. He couldn’t tell Harry. Not yet. So what was the point in dragging it all forward?

“Don’t call Meg anymore,” he says instead of answering. “She’s leaving again.”

Harry actually smirks before he can catch himself. “Pansy told me she was a bit wild. It’d be nice to actually meet her one day.”

It’s not much. It’s barely even an inch. Yet, Draco’s insides leap. It is a small, fractional indication of the future. Of _a_ future. He’s going to take it.

“The shop is still in the same place,” he adds.

“Ireland is a big place, Draco,” Harry says, his voice back it’s normal harshness.

“Pansy can bring you.”

“The party is next week,” Harry replies instead. Draco’s face falls. “Exactly,” Harry resolves. “Same stalemate as always.”

“Is Pansy okay? Is Astoria?”

“Of course.” Harry shrugs as though it’s a given, but Draco knows Pansy better than he ever will. He wants nothing more than to continue his floo tour and nip into her house, just to make sure. Pansy is even better than him at seeming perfectly okay in the middle of a fire.

“I think she probably misses her best friend,” Harry murmurs. “You know, the one who makes _that_ face when I insist she’s fine.”

“I brought you something,” Draco replies, ignoring him and offering the small book he’d found the month before. Harry takes it delicately, turns it over in his hands.

“I miss you too,” he says eventually, barely above a whisper. “I need you to go now, Draco.”

Draco nods once and returns to the fire, wishing—not for the first time—that the green light was going to take him _home._


	7. December 7

Draco shows up way too early for work after a restless, stress-filled night. It’s not really a problem since he has a key and there is an almost unending amount of reshelving to do at the end of most December days. But it depresses him that he is up this early but has nothing more productive to do than show up at the tiny store. He goes to unlock the door and finds it already unlatched.   
  
“Hello?” he calls into the dim light.  _ There it is again, _ he thinks. _ Fear. _ It is illogical since he knows that there are technically only four people can be here right now. Three days earlier, he would have been certain of it. Certain of his safety and anonymity. 

“James?” a calm voice calls back.    
  
Karlene’s head pops up from Medieval Runes and she smiles a broad smile at him; her small plump body is perched atop of one of the rolling ladders, a book cradled in her lap and a tea balanced on the step below.    
  
“You realise it’s about three hours too early for you to be here right?” she teases him.    
  
“I know,” he says miserably. “I also know that I have seven hours of work to finish before all the  _ people  _ arrive.”    
  
“Those  _ ‘people’ _ ,” she replies, “are our  _ customers _ , and they allow me to pay you once in a while.”    
  
“Ah, right,” Draco laughs. “Why are you here, Kar?”    
  
“It’s so quiet in the morning. I like to read for a bit. No one warns you that when you open a bookstore, you will suddenly stop reading.” She holds up the book in her lap and he can just barely make out the title;  _ Lullabies for Little Criminals.  _ Draco shrugged at the garish green cover. 

“No,” Karlene says wryly. “Don’t suppose you’d ever give much time to Muggle titles, would you now, my Pureblood friend.” She laughs gently as he snaps to attention. “Oh relax. I know you fool many people with that hair and yer tattoos there, but I’ve been around the block a time or two. I know a Pureblood Wizard when I see one. I grew up in a time when that mattered, unfortunately.”   
  
Draco clears his throat, trying to find the words. “Karlene—”

“I meant it, James.  _ Relax _ . It doesn’t matter much to me if you’re hiding from your past. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had that in this town. Is it anything that’s going to put me or mine in danger?”    
  
“No, I swear,” Draco insisted firmly. She nodded at him again, but his head was reeling. “Kar, did you...oh.” The realisation hits him all at once; when he speaks again, he is very close to breaking down. “Oh, they found this place, didn’t they?” 

“Some bloke with a posh bloody accent may have called about a month ago, insisting to speak to my manager,” Karlene chuckles. “He was none too pleased to discover that I  _ was  _ the bloody manager, not to mention the owner. And that more importantly, should he like to speak to ‘someone else in charge’, he was going to have to resurrect my long-dead father, god rest his soul.”    
  
“They were asking for me?”    
  
“Goodness, no. They were asking for some bloke with a strange, old-fashioned type of name. Now, you can imagine how furious he was when I insisted that we had no one here by that name. We’re only a small shop, I says.”

She began ticking off names on her fingers, giving Draco a twinkling smile. “I told him. There’s me. Hexeter Lowry, from the wilds of Belfast. Kinshuk Bhasavar, our humble and nearly silent master’s student. And of course, our capable manager, James Smythe, hailing from somewhere in England that I never remember the name of but was almost certainly  _ not  _ London. He was quite unhappy when I sent him all the employee files to confirm.” 

“Karelene, I’m so sorry. You can… I can move on. It’s okay. I’ll find somewhere else.”    
  
Karlene sits bolt upright in her ladder seat to glare at him. He recoils slightly. 

“That’d be some poor repayment, my boy. Leaving me in the lurch two weeks before Christmas. I’ll hear none of it.” She shakes her head firmly and looks down to her book, settling back. “My darling, my family are Muggle. They fled Austria at the start of the First Muggle war. The people of this city chose to overlook everything about us and give us a chance to survive. I am more than capable of doing the same.”    
  
Draco opens his mouth to protest, but the instant he does Karlene literally throws her book at him. Even though he ducks just in time, she manages to pull her wand out and use it to have the book beat him across the head before flying neatly back into her hands.    
  
“We are not our pasts,” she declares simply. “Now, I believe you were whining about work or something?” 

Karlene, having decided the conversation is over, settles back into her reading. Without an alternative option available, Draco decides to slink off to the back room and get to work. It takes several minutes for his heartbeat to return to normal, and even when he manages to convince himself that Karelene means what she says, he feels an overwhelming guilt settle across his shoulders. How had they found him here? Though it didn’t really matter how. The fact was that it solidified what he already knew; all of this was going to have to come to an end soon. Karlene would not be thrown into the middle of his ridiculousness.

When she appears a few minutes later to help him sort through the returns, he gently pulls her cheek to his face and kisses her, trying to shove as much apology and love and gratitude into the simple act as he can.   
  
“Don’t worry, Jamie, my darling,” she says, not meeting his eyes. “You’re safe in these shelves if that’s what you need. For as long as you need.”    
  
“Karlene. You are too,” Draco promises. "You absolutely are too." 


	8. December 8

Harry wakes up late because he has barely slept. Until the wee hours of the morning, he had obsessively read the small, palm-sized book Draco left him with, pouring over it like it held all the answers.

The thing is quite extraordinary. Barely longer than fifty pages long, yet jammed pack full of information about a variety of magical genetic mutation. He knows why Draco gave it to him; it has the longest section on Metamorphmagi that Harry has ever seen. It's thin nature hides the fact that the book is magic. When closed and reopened, the thin volume reveals new information. He must have tried fifty separate times, but every reopening revealed brand new facts. Teddy was going to be enthralled. Harry is completely addicted.

Despite loving the book, he was also furious. It was a classic Draco gift; likely expensive, rare and confusing, lacking any explanation. And most irritatingly, Harry hadn’t even known how much he had needed it until Draco had given it to him.

He'd spent the night fuming and sad in equal measure.

Now awake, he blinks in the late morning sun and looked around his room, trying to sort out why. Just as his eyes drift closed again, he hears the bell that must have woken him, muffled by closed doors and distance. He would like to just ignore it, but whoever it is rings again and omething about the insistence jars him into standing.

He sighs as he throws a shirt over his bare chest, chooses not to look in the mirror and stuffs his glasses on his face. Inexplicably,, he already knows who it is; he doesn’t know how or why, but he can _feel_ Pansy’s glare before he sees her.

Her short sleek bob is dyed a deep purple this week, almost indistinguishable from black unless she is standing in the bright sun as she is now. She’s clad in a lovely emerald coat and knee-high boots. As ever, she is distinguished and beautiful, someone Harry would never dare speak to on the street. He isn't ashamed to admit that if he didn’t know her, he’d be intimidated by her mere presence.

Hell, he’s still intimidated.

As soon as the door opens, her eyebrow quirks in intense judgement. “You were in _bed,_ ” she says. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Late night,” he says unapologetically. “Did you need something?”

She holds up a thick envelope and waves it in his face indelicately.

“I have a deadline today, remember? The pages. They’re done.”

“Down to the wire, as usual, I see,” Harry teases with a smirk. Pansy’s design books are always very profitable and they both know it; there is no point in denying it. She’s why his little publishing adventure has been even halfway successful. He had barely made expenses for the first two years with his children’s books. Pansy saved his wild gamble by proposing he expand.

She smiles at him jovially and hands him the envelope. She turns to leave and something inside Harry snaps. He needs her. He needs to talk to her. He needs her to _stay_.

“Tea, Pansy?”

She pauses in her retreat and turns to study him. He had known she would. A quick study of character and frighteningly perceptive, is Pansy Greengrass.

“He contacted you,” she says simply. He nods, finding it pointless to lie at this point. “I thought he might,” she sighs. “He’s fairly predictable, our Draco.”

“I hardly think he’s 'my' anything,” Harry grumbles petulantly, unable to stop himself.

Pansy laughs unkindly in response. "Don’t kid yourself, Potter,” she chastises. “Fine, inside. You can make me terrible tea and we can commiserate.”

“There’s nothing I need to… I don’t need pity.”

“Well,” she says harshly. “I _do_. Plus, you can help me decide what to get Astoria for Christmas. And you can show me the book he brought you.”

“How do you… you can’t know that.”

“Potter, for fuck’s sake, of _course,_ I can. Does he or does he not always find you some spectacular book for Christmas?”

“Yes, but—”

“And he was here, was he not?”

“I don’t understand how you could possibly—”

She laughs again, gripping his shoulders to state him down. “Harry, I mean this kindly, but don’t for the love of all things Merlin ever—and I mean _ever—_ play poker.”

She breezes past him into the entry, taking off her boots and coat, just as she has always done. She has a severe black dress on beneath the layers, but something about her stockinged feet softens her; perhaps, he thinks, it is just because she loses a few centimetres in hight without those death spikes stiched half-way up her legs.

Pansy tucks her hair behind her ears and for some reason, that is all it takes; at that moment, Harry completely breaks down.

“Pansy,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.

Her eyes snap to his and her face melts a little bit; those who don’t know her well view Pansy as frigid. They are wrong. Pansy is careful, guarded, sure, but she is also Slytherin to her core. She will protect those she loves with her very last breath. It's not easy to get into that circle, but once you are there, you are bricked in and secured for life. 

She hesitates only a moment before every tiny inch of her, in her elegant costume, expensive perfume, and chic hair engulfs him in a large, enveloping hug that steals his breath yet knits the crumbling pieces of his heart back together.

“I know, Harry,” she whispers into his hair, not caring that it is dirty and rumpled, that he has slept until noon and is not dressed or showered. “I know. We’ll figure it out, you and I. We _will_.”

He wraps his arms around her, grateful that for one moment, he doesn’t have to pretend. He doesn’t have to try and seem fine. He doesn’t have to make himself remember that it is December and it is Christmas. He doesn’t have to be in charge or make decisions.

For the first time in many, many years, Harry lets himself sob.


	9. December 9

If anyone had ever asked Draco who would find him first, who would turn up in Limerick one day ready to face him, he would never have said Teddy Lupin. Yet, now that he is standing in the shop, facing the seventeen-year-old head on, first thing on a Sunday morning, he finds he is not surprised 

Teddy spends a full forty-five minutes standing in the street outside. Draco notices him after five.

With lime green hair, a leather jacket thrown haphazardly over a black hoodie, he doesn't exactly blend in; despite the three year timespan, he looks exactly the same as when the day Draco had left. In fact, he was still wearing the same tattered motorcycle boots he'd owned since his feet had stopped growing. It made Draco chuckle for a moment; it’s just a little bit comical, and always has been, that Teddy was a Metamorphmagus who hated change.

Despite the winter drizzle, Teddy stood on the walkway, leaning against the fence and studying the sign. Finally, after nearly an hour of pretending he doesn't see him, Draco goes outside.

“Teddy,” he says gently. “Do you want to just come in?”

Teddy stands up straight and nods once, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets and following Draco all the way into the back office without saying a word.

“How did you find the shop?” Draco asks once Teddy has closed the door.

“Pansy,” he replies with a shrug. “She Apparated me here, but I didn’t want her to wait."

Draco nods, no second question at the ready 

Teddy studies the wall behind his head before finally muttering, "I feel like someone should have guessed Ireland.”

“Ireland’s a big place,” Draco mumbles, echoing Harry's recent words with a grimace   
  
“Not that big,” Teddy says. 

They stare at each other a moment before Draco clears his throat.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?”  
  
“No. N.E.W.T.s are after the break and I’m done my classes,” Teddy says defensively. Draco guesses he’s had this conversation with someone else already. “I’m going to Uncle Harry’s tonight to help set up for the party next week.”

“I see,” Draco murmurs.

“I think that you should come,” Teddy adds simply, his hands finally making an appearance to fall to his side; the movement looks defensive and it makes Draco a little bit sad.

“Teddy,” he sighs. “You know I can’t.”

“He doesn’t date, you know. Not at all.” Teddy looks down at the floor and his hair flutters briefly to a warm rose. “You know as well as I do that you’re reasons aren’t really necessary any more.”

“What do you know about my reasons,” Draco scoffs. Teddy glares at him immediately, a fire and tension in his face that he is sure he inherited from his mother; he didn’t know her well, but the stories are legendary.  
  
“Draco, don’t you think that I, of all people, _know_ you’re reasons." Teddy hesitates and when he speaks again his voice is gentle, almost silent. "I’ve always known.”  
  
Draco looks at him carefully. For a moment, he doesn’t really process what he is hearing. Teddy, however, is sincere. He's telling the truth.  
  
“Yeah,” Teddy affirms, seeing Draco’s expression change, watching realisation dawn. It's like a weight is lifted from him at the admission. He seems taller, less burdened. “At the time, I agreed with your choice. But I was dumb. I was a _kid._ At least I had an excuse.”  
  
“You’re _still_ a kid,” Draco huffs. “Especially if you think this is that simple.”  
  
“There’s a big difference between simple and right,” Teddy says. “And I never said it was simple.”

Draco exhales, his witty comeback dieing on his tongue. He is thrown back for a moment to the Manor.

There is a story Draco was often told growing up, one of many that never sat with him well. It was the story of his great-grandfather, who married the first woman he ever courted but fell in love with the man who lived at the end of their lane; as the story went, he faced a choice. Did he give up everything, his family’s honour, his fortune, for the sake of love? Eventually, he decides to stay with his wife and children and the Malfoy blood stays ' _pur’._ The end is why the story still got trotted out whenever Lucius felt Draco was being rash or needed reminding of his responsibilities. He’d always _hated_ the story, more than most but he'd never really understood why. 

Until now.

Looking at Teddy, standing in front of him stuck in the familiar crossroads between boy and man, he understood.

Draco would do the things he’d done over the past five years all over again, just to ensure the safety and happiness of these people. Of Harry, of Teddy. Because his great-grandfather had made the _wrong_ choice. He should have chosen to create his family from the bond that he needed. He should have chosen love. It was the harder choice, Draco knows that, but Teddy is right.

Simple is not always right.

Teddy moves to the door, heedless of Draco’s inner revelation. “This shop is something else,” he says, looking back to the floor at the shelves piled high, the books sorting themselves. 

“James!”

The shout is combined with a running Hex, looking panicked and disgruntled; he knows immediately what is wrong.  
  
“Did you just _tell_ him that the shipment isn’t here yet?” he calls back, pushing past Teddy gently to cut Hex off at the pass.

“I tried to but he _insists_ he hears it from—ooh, sorry. Jamie. Didn’t realise you had guests.” Hex eyes Teddy’s bright hair and flips Draco a salacious look before sticking his hand out. “I’m Hex. I need to borrow James for a moment. And you are…”  
  
Draco tries to introduce Teddy, but he interrupts him, returning the handshake with a confidence that Draco had forgotten was the base of his personality.  
  
“Edward,” he says firmly. “I’m James’ godson. But I was just leaving. I just came to find out what his plans were for the holidays.”  
  
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Godson?" 

“It’s okay.” Teddy turns to Draco, leans in and gives him a short, awkward hug. “I think we got what we needed. Nice meeting you, Hex.”

Just as quickly as he had strode in, Draco watches as Teddy disappears into the streets of Limerick, knowing exactly how much confusion he has left behind.


	10. December 10, Five Years Earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timelines are about to go haywire. Have fun ;)

_Five Years Earlier_

Draco, as usual, is running. He feels like he is literally always running these days. He’s never been the type of person to arrive late, for anything, ever. But the Auror department almost expects rookies to be late and the knowledge is the only thing that saves him from having a small panic attack every time he slides into his seat five minutes into briefings.

Still, he pushes himself to move even faster as he careens down the dark alley toward the Ministry side entrance. He’s well aware of the fact that he made it through the training program by the skin of his teeth and he doesn’t want to give anyone any reason to fire him.

It’s not that he isn’t good at what he does; quite the contrary in fact. He’s an excellent investigator. He had always been observant and now, with extra training and extra fitness, he's truly extraordinary. And he would tell anyone who asked just that.

He isn't very popular in the Ministry halls.

This, of course, did not really bother Draco all that much. He had long ago stopped caring if people liked him. Something about finding oneself in the middle of a war simply because your family cared about appearances quite cured you of caring about public opinion. As long as he was doing an excellent job of doing exactly what he wanted to be doing, he was going to make a big deal about it to anyone foolish enough to listen. 

He flies out of the floo grate the second his feet hit solid ground and drags his robes over his body from where they had been resting by his side to avoid the worst of the soot. By the time he slides into his assigned seat next to Potter, he is only just barely out of breath and he’s pretty sure his hair is at least sort of straight.

“Close one again, Malfoy,” Harry whispers tauntingly, the smirk plastered on his face light and lacking all malice.

“Stuff it,” Draco returns with a grin. He knows full well how many times Potter has been just as late as he has; it’s hard to avoid noticing when your partner is missing your case assignments.

In a cruel joke of the universe, Potter and Malfoy had been paired together for the majority of their training and first year. This was less of an exciting debut of Enemies-turned-allies as it was a hilarious fluke of a lazy instructor and the curses of Alphabetical Order. With no one in their small graduating classes with surnames beginning with _N_ or _O,_ Malfoy-n-Potter it was.

It hadn’t been as bad as they had both initially assumed it would be; after their first day had ended in a fist fight, and a punitive afternoon of scrubbing out practice cauldrons, they hadn’t really had any real trouble since. Things were, surprisingly, civil.

 _Confusingly_ so, in fact.

Draco often caught himself having to stop the sentence, “my friend Harry” from leaving his mouth. He wasn’t delusional. They were passable work associates, but he knew he wasn’t Potter’s _friend_.

The meeting is over quickly and Draco bolts back to his desk in the back office to make sure that it looks like he’s been there the whole time. It’s a whole three minutes before Potter shows up, his smirk back in place and his body leaning against the door frame to their little pod of desks; Graham and Hilt are already on assignment and the room is empty.

“You’re safe, none of the uppers are in today,” he says lightly with a chuckle as he watches Draco open case files and ruffle his desk drawers with practised ease.

“What? Why?” Draco asks with a pause, looking up and catching himself off guard; Potter’s robes are open, his wand guard unbuckled at the wrist and his shirt sleeves rolled up to expose tightly wound forearms. Draco’s throat goes dry, unbidden.

“Guess that explains your casual attire," he adds awkwardly, trying to cover for his silent staring. 

Potter waves him off as he enters the room properly. “I was duelling with Ron. There’s barely anyone here… didn’t you notice? Oh, no wait, you were _running_ through the atrium.”

Draco rolls his eyes and ignores the rebuke. “Where is everyone?”

“At the train. Skeleton crew. You’re kidding, right? I’ve been going on about it for weeks. It’s Teddy day!”

“Oh dear lord,” Draco says, scrubbing his face. “I forgot.”

“Well, un-forget,” Potter replies with a chuckle. “Because I’m leaving here at three whether or not we are finished that bloody Menagerie case.”

“You’re worse than a child,” Draco taunts, no heat to his voice as he laughs at Harry. He is a child, but it’s sort of sweet; he has indeed been excited about the return of his Godson for literally weeks. “It’s so early for them to be home. Hogwarts is slipping.”

“I’m not having this fight with you again,” Potter huffs, sliding into the chair across from his desk. “They’ve moved exams until after Christmas—”

“And given them three weeks off now. Yeah, yeah. I stand by my statement.”

Harry laughs again but then falls uneasily silent, his feet stretching out in front of him until his toes are resting against the wood on the back of Draco’s desk. He’s hesitating about something, but Draco pretends not to notice.

“Hey, Draco,” he mutters, worrying the end of his guard in his hands.

“Hm?” Draco replies, skimming the file in front of him as he tries to decide where to start today.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you if you want to come to my little Christmas party thing,” Potter says in one extended breath. Draco freezes. Looks up and stares.

Harry can be as nonchalant as he likes. They both know that a Potter ‘Christmas Party’ is not a little thing. Potter opens his massive house to people who would otherwise never be there and collects gifts for charity, brings in a Santa for the kids, has gingerbread competitions and generally makes up for the fact that the first twelve years of his life had contained barely any Christmas at all. It is also invitation only, elaborately catered, the event of the season that creates fodder for gossip for months to come. It’s huge and intimate at the same time.

Draco has never been.

“I mean, I know how busy you are at this time of year, with your family, so don’t worry about it if you can't and everything but I wanted you to...I wanted to invite you,” Potter says all in a rush. He seems to have gone a bit pink in Draco’s silence. “It would mean… a lot. To Teddy.”

“Teddy.”

“Well,” Potter shrugs, “You’re his cousin. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have a lot of family.”

“I’d love to,” Draco replies honestly, choosing not to overthink the invitation, choosing to be relaxed and appreciative instead. Potter beams at him and Draco’s stomach relocates to his knees.

“Great!” Potter says, leaping up. “Let’s get to it! Three o’clock, Malfoy!”

In reality, the day probably passes in a completely normal, uneventful way. They stay in the office for most of it, after all. They have no active cases, so they spend the day trading paperwork back and forth for detail checks. But for hours after the morning, Draco’s heart hammers in his chest. He swears he catches Harry staring at him sidelong more than once. And they can’t seem to speak in the normal, banter-bordering-on-argument way they normally do. Instead, their conversations are stilted, polite. _Wrong_.

Something in the air has shifted and Draco can't quite put his finger on it. 

By the time three o’clock rolls around, he is exhausted from the sheer weight of trying to act normal. He is immensely relieved when Harry leaps from his desk the second the large wall clock ticks over and announces his departure.

“Draco!” he shouts just as he careens out the door. “Can I owl you the invite? You’ll need the password.”

“Wh-yes-um… yes. Go ahead. I… have fun with Teddy,” he finishes lamely.

Harry comes to an abrupt stop at the word ‘Teddy’, a worried furrow creasing his smooth forehead under his ridiculous mop of hair.

“I’m kind of worried I’m going to mess it up, actually. What do I know about twelve-year-olds?” he confesses with a glance at Draco. “Andromeda will never let me see him again if anything happens.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of weeks. Try not to kill him,” Draco teases. The joke falls flat and Harry’s face is briefly horror-stricken as if various images of how the child could come to harm are flashing before him. Draco laughs gently, taking pity. “Harry. Harry!”

Harry’s eyes snap back to his.

“It’s going to be fine. Teddy adores you. Go, be excited and happy together. It’s not worth worrying about things that aren’t going to happen. You’ve got this,” Draco insists.

He means it. Whatever else he knows in his constantly changing opinions of Harry Potter, he has almoe always secretly trusted that the man was _competent_. Even in the worst moments, the ones where he’d hated him, he’d honestly—for whatever reason—believed that Potter would be capable of whatever he needed to do.

Harry smiles a weak smile and nods. “Okay,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Draco.”

He waves a ridiculous wave as he saunters off in just his shirt sleeves, his coat slung over his shoulder; Draco doesn’t recover from that shy, confused smile for several very complicated moments.


	11. December 11

Hermione is already at the house when Harry and Teddy arrive home from the zoo; it’s still his favourite day adventure in London and Harry is only too happy to oblige since he can feel the kid’s childhood slipping away one step at a time. 

They run into Hermione right by the door, but Rose is nowhere to be found.   
  
“She wanted to play in the library,” Hermione says apologetically, seeing his confusion “I hope it’s okay. Hiya Teddy.”    
  
“Hi, Aunt Hermione,” Teddy replies. “I’m tired.”    
  
Both Hermione and Harry chuckle; it is classic Teddy Lupin frankness and Harry has missed it immensely.   
  
“The first couple of days of holiday can be tiring,” Hermione answers with a serious nod. 

“You can go rest if you want. Dinner won’t be for a bit.”   
  
“Can I go play with Rose?” Teddy asks. Harry nods, wondering how on  _ earth  _ playing with a five-year-old is at all restful, but decides it must just be kid mystery and leaves it alone. 

Hermione follows him to the kitchen and helps him unpack the groceries he’s brought in.    
  
“Ron is bringing the baby in an hour or so,” she informs him. “I think he’s had a long day. I have to say, I’m a big fan of this paternity leave. It’s nice to have the tables turn.”    
  
Harry laughs. “That’s so vindictive,” he teases.    
  
“It isn’t!” She laughs. “They’re his kids too. It’s just fair. How was the zoo? Or more importantly, how is Teddy? Is school going okay? Did he say?”    
  
“Not really,” Harry says worriedly. “I think he’s still having trouble with those boys. I have a feeling he just wants Andromeda. He’s trying to be excited, but… I mean, you remember what we were like at twelve. He’s hardly  _ unaware  _ of why he’s with me. I think he’s worried.”    
  
“Well,” Hermione says, laying a hand across his back. “All we can do is make Christmas nice, right?”  He nods without a reply, and it makes Hermione sigh. “Harry,” she insists. “You know you can’t fix this, right?”

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “I know. Want to help me make pizzas?”    
  
“You want my help. To _cook_. How about  _ I  _ pour a glass of wine, and  _ you  _ make pizza.”    
  
Despite his melancholy, Harry laughs; he pours them both some wine and sets Hermione at the table, prompting her about her day though he rarely understands any of her stories. It’s a very complex life she is starting to lead and this new election process she has thrown herself into is not helping. Hugo is barely a year old, she’s been back to work for approximately five minutes, and somehow, she is running for elected office already. Hermione Granger, par for the course.

He loves her immensely.   
  
“Enough about that,” Hermione says suddenly after a complicated explanation of her last meeting of the day. “You tell me about  _ your  _ job. Did you manage to tell your boss yet? Or accomplish any of your  _ other  _ tasks?”    
  
The sly tone she switches to leaves him with a small grin. He knows the reaction he’s about to get, but somehow, he’s not ready to tell her. Not exactly.   
  
“Oh my goodness,” she gasps, leaping from her chair, correctly reading his face just as she has always done. “You did it! You finally invited him! Harry! I can't believe you didn't owl me right after. Details. What did he say? Did he throw his Pure-Blood ascot in your face for inviting him at the last possible moment?”    
  
“It’s not the _last_ possible moment. The party is four days away!” Harry insists. “And I told you, he’s not like that anymore.”    
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ve already told you, as long as he doesn’t hurt you in any way,  _ at all _ , his bollocks may remain attached to his body. I'm not the one who wants to... well, you’re the one who works with him all day. You get to decide if you trust him.”    
  
Harry grins, intentionally turning away from her as a blush rises to his cheeks. “He was weirdly casual about the whole thing, actually. It was a little...unnerving.”    
  
“Of course he was,” Hermione says with a shrug, leaning on the counter and snagging some shredded cheese. “He was freaking out as much as you were.” 

“He was not,” Harry scoffs. “Malfoy does not ‘freak out’.” 

“Whatever.” If Hermione’s eyes rolled any further back into her head, she might lose them there and she pushes forward, clearly ignoring his discomfort. “Are you going to tell him at the party?”    
  
“That’s the plan,” Harry says miserably. 

She laughs at him. “Well, don’t sound so excited.”    
  
“Well, I’m running out of time, aren’t I?” Harry replies, slapping her hand away from the cheese. “At the very least, I need to tell him I’m leaving.”    
  
“If it wasn’t so disturbing, it would  _ almost  _ be romantic,” Hermione teases, ducking under his arm to take more cheese and going back to her perch at the table.    
  
“It’s only going to be romantic if I haven’t invented this whole thing in my head.”  Harry punctuates his sentence by tossing the grater in the sink at the same time as Ron collides into the kitchen ahead of Teddy, who is laughing hysterically, and Rose, who careens into the back of both of them and makes baby Hugo laugh.   
  


"You haven't," Hermione insists. 

"Haven't what?" Ron asks. He sounds exhausted.

“We can talk about this later,” Harry says to Hermione before he scoops the baby from Ron, making Hugo giggle and allowing Ron to collapse at the table beside Hermione. They can definitely revisit his pathetic life later. That's not the point of tonight.  After all, tonight is not about pining. 

Tonight is about family. 


	12. December 12

Draco doesn’t admit it, but he waits the entire evening the next day after work waiting for an owl; the day at the office sans Potter felt bizarre and empty, and as the window remained empty hour after hour, he also felt like he had made the whole day up. When he makes it home the second day of Potter’s week off, he’s headed straight into despondent territory. Pansy finds him in the living room and sighs dramatically.

“Oh dear lord, Malfoy. You have got to stop. You’re pining is starting to crimp my hair. I will absolutely not allow it.” She grabs both his hands in her own and pulls; Draco groans and lets himself be dragged up. “Come on, we’re going out.”

“What?” he declares. "No, Pans, it’s Wednesday and I have a shit ton of work with no partner to help. I’m staying right here.”

“I am not turning into one of those women with a shut-in for a roommate who says to all her friends, ‘oh he’s really nice when you get to know him,” she flips her hair and its disconcerting how much it frightens him. Her determination is one day going to be legendary. “Go. Put on nicer trousers and comb your hair.”

He sighs again but acquiesces. He will if she keeps needling anyway; they both know it and he really could use the distraction.

“I don’t think there are women like that,” he argues pointlessly as he walks back to his bedroom.

Twenty minutes later they are sat in the back corner of his favourite Tapas restaurant, sharing a pitcher of margaritas that he is definitely going to regret, and Draco is incredibly suspicious.

Pansy Parkinson is being polite. It’s worse than that, in fact; she is being considerate of those around her.

Including Draco.

“Pansy, what the fuck is wrong,” he asks finally as the waitress serving them leaves with a wink to Pansy in response to her very kind request for extra salt for their glasses. “You’re acting like my mother.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Pansy tries to say, an innocent sweetness in her voice that actually makes Draco shudder.

“Fuck off,” he insists. “Out with it, Parkinson. I’ve known you too long. You’re hiding something.” His eyes narrow as he realises the truth. “Good lord, what have you done. Does it involve a body? It’s best to just tell me quickly so we can deal with it.”

She barks out a nervous laugh and pats his head patronisingly. “Merlin, but I love you, Malfoy.” Her joviality is quickly replaced with a frown as she withdraws her hand. “Please, try to remember that, okay?”

“Pansy, you’re scaring me—”

“I’m seeing someone,” she interrupts.

“And you’ve killed them?”

“Draco,” she pleads. He shuts his mouth. “It’s… it’s gotten more serious than I intended.”

Draco smiles gently at her, understanding her panic. Or at least thinking he does. “You know that’s okay, right? You don’t actually have to be an ice queen. Why are you so nervous to tell me these things? I’m hardly in a position to—”

“Draco,” Pansy interjects. “It’s Astoria.”

Draco closes his mouth for a moment, processing. “Oh,” he says eventually.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear. She and Daph and I went out one night, right after… well, and I didn’t mean to… to like her. So I didn’t tell you, but then I kept seeing her and suddenly. I—”

“You love her,” he implies. Pansy nods miserably.

“I want to ask her to… I’ve literally never wanted to be married, Draco, but—”

“Pansy,” he says, reaching across to take her hand. “Pansy, I’m so happy for you. I’m… I’m a little surprised, that’s all.”

“You should be furious.”

“What?” He is genuinely confused at her worry and hesitation. He’s not angry; surprised, yes. Shocked, a little, but only because this is Pansy Parkinson he’s looking at. “Pansy, why would I be furious.”

“Well, I mean…”

“The engagement?” he asks, finally piecing it together. He laughs a little bit. “Pansy Eleanor. Are you fucking kidding?” Her head snaps up and just a little bit of her determined fury is back in her eyes. He decides to push on, hoping it all returns by the time he is done berating her. This Pansy is just disturbing. He wants her gone.

“You didn’t tell me, your best friend, that you had fallen in love because you thought I was going to be angry that you wanted to marry my ex-fiance,” he summarises and waits for her to respond. “Who, I would remind you, decided not to marry me because why? Oh right. Because she was very, very gay. You, my love, are dimmer than even I give you credit.”

She is angry now, and Draco is gleeful; he sits back and sips at his drink as she pulls her hand away.

“Well…” she flounders, cheeks pink from frustrated collected emotions. “Fine then.”

“Yes, fine,” he shrugs.

They eat in silence for a moment before Draco stands up and goes around the table. He leans down to hug Pansy firmly and she gasps in surprise. “I’m so happy for you, my love.”

“Yes, alright, it’s all very wonderful. Please stop...emoting near me. Tell me about this latest Potter induced despondency instead.”

“Nope,” Draco teases, sitting back down. “I get to berate you about every detail of your sugar-plum sweet romance now. It is my god given right as your gay best friend.”

“I don't think you can be my gay best friend when I’m hardly the straightest wand in the shop,” she grumbles, but there is a light behind her eyes that makes Draco’s insides squirm in covetous happiness.

He tries his best to tamp down the lonely jealousy as he launches into a series of cringe-worthy questions that Pansy answers in a happy and scary forthright way.


	13. December 13

Teddy’s hair is mousy brown and it’s the first sign Harry gets that it is going to be a very bad day. They have been sniping at each other for two hours already and it’s only 11 in the morning.

“Remind me again why you do this when it so clearly makes you miserable?” he asks harshly as he drags another box of decorations down the stairs.

They are both dressed for hard work, in crappy jeans and old t-shirts, but Harry is aware that the seventeen-year-old version of this outfit looks far more intentional and less pathetic than it does on his constantly ageing frame.

It’s a difficult question to field since he isn’t exactly sure  _ why  _ he does it, not for the past three years at least. The kids in his life hardly care about Santa anymore, and most of the time, the party just leads to bad press.

“Tradition,” he answers cryptically, pointing his wand at the nearest box and springing loose string after string of garland. Teddy has to duck to avoid the flying tinsel as he traipses heavily back to the attic.

Harry used to get help with this process; he’d let Pansy bring in friends of hers, let Hermione call in favours, and other people would have everything set up before he even got home the day before the party. He’d stopped accepting the assistance after Draco, though, and except for the caterers that would arrive sometime the following afternoon to make use of his otherwise haunted kitchen, he did everything himself. It was easier now since he invited a quarter of the people he had in his Ministry days, which wasn’t difficult since he barely kept in touch with anyone unnecessarily.

There had been times when this party had meant everything to him. He was not normally a party kind of person, and certainly not a host when he was. But Christmas was different. Christmas was his  _ favourite.  _ He had the means and the time and the will, and no one could ever quite convince him  _ not  _ to make a big deal about the holiday. He loved the whole process of the party, even if it meant he had to let the media briefly into his life.

It made his heart sing that the terrible, giant house was redecorated and filled with carols and delicious food, laughter and running children. It was a giant hoopla that flew in the face of everything Black, and Harry liked to think that Sirius would have also loved it. It kept the people he liked close to him and made it harder for those who hated him to smear his name around the winter festivities. People had come to count on the party.

He just wasn’t sure how much longer that was going to be enough.

“Do you want this down here?” Teddy calls from the stairs. Harry’s gaze immediately turns to a glare when he looks up to find him holding a rumpled, still-decorated silver tin tree.

“Why would I want it down here?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“Well, because,” Teddy growls back, “if you aren’t going to put the  _ Christmas  _ tree up at  _ Christmas _ , why the actual fuck are you keeping it.”    
  
“Language,” he harps automatically; his mind, however, has wandered off as Teddy stands there.

_ Why the bloody hell would you buy that thing? _

_ What? You don’t like it… I thought you’d like it.  _ __   
_   
_ __ Why would I like  that?

_ It’s your house colours. _

_ Oh for the love of… don’t pout Potter. It's unseemly. _

Hot  _ you mean. I know you can’t resist a solid pout. _

“Teddy,” Harry insists, forcing himself back to the present. “Can we please stop this now? You’ve made your point. Nothing is going to change. Please, can we drop it.”

Teddy huffs, placing the tree on the stair to cross his arms derisively. “I can’t. Not when you’re both acting like children and making each other miserable.”    
  
“ _ I _ am not acting like a child,” Harry shouts. “And we have no idea  _ what  _ Draco is acting like, which is sort of the point, isn’t it now?”    
  
“Oh no, he’s acting like a child too." He pauses and the silence is heavy. 

"I went to see him,” Teddy he says finally, with a shrug that barely masks his concern at giving Harry this information.

“You what? How—Pansy,” Harry realises. “I should have told her not to—”   
  
“You can’t tell her anything, Uncle Harry,” Teddy says matter-of-factly. “I’m of age.”    
  
“Teddy—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Teddy Lupin, your meddling is going to meddle you right into a hole someday’,” he says in a very close approximation to Andromeda’s high, reedy voice. He smiles a sad smile. “It’s just...this time of year. It’d be nice to stop losing people, wouldn’t it?”    
  
“Teddy—” Harry says again.

“Yeah. Fine. I’m taking it back upstairs, and when I come back down, I will be as jolly as a  _ fucking  _ elf.” He grins at Harry and salutes. 

Although Harry calls ‘language’ after him, he can’t help but grin too. It’s an impossible time of year, but at least Teddy is home, and at least traditions will keep being traditional.

It’s a small win, and Harry, for one, is going to take it. 


	14. December 14, Five Years Earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just... so much fluff in this chapter? It almost feels like it needs a warning for some reason ;)

The party is in full swing when Draco arrives; he had been trying to avoid that, but he’d debated so long over whether to wear plum or green that Pansy had eventually magically locked his wardrobe and refused to tell him the counter-jinx. And, now he was late.

He stood on the sidewalk staring up at the grand street before him; he hasn’t been to this house since he was a very small child and he does not have fond memories of it. He watches as the house appears before him at the whispered password from his invitation, inhaling slowly as the sounds of a large group people assault him. He forces himself up the walk and startles as the door springs open.   
  
“You are a guest of Mr Harry Potter!” a loud voice shouts at him in accusation; it’s clear there isn’t really a _right_ answer to this question. He looks down to find a house-elf, dressed in tails and of an indeterminable age, staring up at him expectantly.

“Y-yes?” Draco isn’t sure what he’s going to say if he is forced to define his connection to Harry, and his palms have gone embarrassingly sweaty.

He feels ridiculous for his nerves; he is a _Malfoy,_ for crying out loud. He was raised on attending parties and being a guest. He can do this. The knowledge doesn’t stop him from being relieved beyond belief when he spots Harry’s chaotic mess of hair and smudged glasses at the top of the entryway; he beams at Harry before he can school his face, and gets such a beatific grin in response that he has to wipe his hands on his pants before he can wave.

 _Get it together, Malfoy_ , he thinks.

“Welcome!” Harry shouts over the music. He makes himself reply with a calm smile, shoving his hands in his pockets.

There is no controlling himself when Potter dips through the crowd toward him, however, gesturing for him to follow and immediately dispatching the elf; Draco lets his face lighten up, lets his step become jaunty. He lets himself be swept up with the _Yuletide_ of it all.

There is activity everywhere. Every corner pulls at his attention, but Potter seems to have some sort of goal in his manic movements, so Draco just hangs on for the ride and follows; in the back of his mind, it strikes him as hilarious that Harry moves through his own life this way. Draco has always assumed that it was a type of movement reserved for chasing criminals. It seems, though, that boundless energy is a personality trait. It is oddly endearing.

“Drink?” he asks, turning to grin at Draco again. “This is the food bar. Make sure you eat. If only to save me from weeks of canapes for breakfast. I just have to nip back to the door, but I’ll find you in a minute, okay?”   
  
Draco nods helplessly and watches as Potter retreats. He gets himself a drink wanders around the main floor of the house. He’s impressed despite himself. There is a gingerbread making station, a clown who seems to be making holiday-themed balloon animals that make their appropriate noises, and so many ministry employees that Draco feels like it’s a job interview.

It is an hour before he sees Harry again, but he doesn’t really mind; this party isn’t what he’s used to. It isn’t resplendent and refined, not going to be the talk of designers and the envy of event planners for months on end. But damned if it isn’t _fun._ The time flies by. He’s enjoying himself, against all odds; he’s been adopted by the Auror admin’s daughter, has made three ginger-witches with far too many gumdrop buttons, and is holding an alligator that keeps snapping at its own string.

When he finally sees Harry approaching again, pushing past people with quickly muttered greetings and making a beeline for where he is standing, Draco is grinning unapologetically, and fears he may smell like fake cinnamon for the rest of his natural born life.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Harry exclaims, smiling back without hesitation. Draco feels it again, the unexplained flush, the embarrassment that had never been present between them. He’s actually sort of starting to find it irritating. “Really didn’t mean to abandon you,” Harry adds.  
  
“You’re hosting. It’s a busy job. You hardly need to apologise to me. Besides, Abigail here has been excellent company.”

“I told him that _you_ have to show him the lights though. It’s adults only.”

The little girl frowns, but her grip is tight on Draco’s hand and she has green icing all over her face, so the expression is less sullen than it would have been. He is careful to keep his face serious as he nods back at her, but he winks at Harry. He is sure he is imagining the slight pause of Harry before he tears his gaze down to Abby.

“I know, Abs, but you are the only one who gets to go in the bouncy castle in the back,” Harry replies Draco smiles. It’s not the first time he’s noticed that Harry is a natural around children; it’s very…interesting. To watch. Though he can’t be sure why.

“And right _now,_ ” Harry adds, “your parents are looking for you.”   
  
She sighs and drags Draco down to her level by the hand. Into his ear, she whispers ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Malloy”, and kisses his cheek. When Draco stands up, he swears he sees Harry blush in the dim lighting. Abigail runs off, leaving him with Harry and a crocodile balloon, and the unfortunate but desperate need to use the washroom.   
  
“I’d like to see the lights,” he says truthfully, “But...I’ve, uh, I’ve had a lot of punch?”   
  
Harry smiles and gestures for Draco to follow him, heading up a set of stairs to their right that Draco had barely noticed. 

“Through there,” he says, pointing to a door. “I'll wait. Sorry. I didn't mean—that's creepy. I just mean…I'll show you the lights if you want?”

Draco laughs. “I'll only be a moment.”

The chuckle seems to make Harry relax a little bit and he leans against a corridor wall.

He retreats into the washroom, which is simple but nice, and has to steady himself against the sink basin before he can go on. He’s relatively sure he's not imagining it anymore; something has definitely shifted in the air between them and he's _uncomfortably_ aware of how little he minds. He feels hot around the collar and his fingers tingle as he washes them. His hair is still in place and he exhales with force before he steps back out of the bathroom, where Harry pushes off the wall and gestures for Draco to follow him again.

Only this time, they end up at a window. A window that opens out onto a metal fire escape that appears to only go up.

“It's safer than it looks,” Harry says nervously stepping out and leaning back to make room for Draco to follow.

“It couldn't possibly be _less_ safe than it looks."

He's not really nervous. He trusts Harry. Well, he trusts his _Auror_ partner not to lead him to his own death; the jury is still out on whether to universally trust Potter.

He doesn't regret the implicit faith once they ascend two flights and vault a ledge to the roof. The sight would have been worth at _least_ three more flights.

All around them, tiny fairy lights glow. It isn't just that the roof is lit with row after row of white Edison bulbs displayed from heavy wire. More impressive, though, is that the entire street beyond is also lit. As is the parkette across from the house.

Potter's house is the only one with this tiny flat portion of a roof and he's taken full advantage. Stuck in one corner is a railed platform with garden furniture chained to it; it's stacked and away for winter, but Harry strides towards it with purpose, so Draco follows.

“There's a byelaw,” he says as he steps onto the platform and leans on the rail.

“What?” Draco is too transfixed by everything before him to have heard Potter properly, though he's not sure he would have understood if he had.

“A byelaw. The Muggles on this street run the local council. They seem to have decided that every house Must Have Lights. Who knows how they got away with it in this day and age but…”

Draco steps up beside Harry on the tiny landing and looks down.

“Tada,” Harry says quietly, his arms balancing on the rail delicately as though they are trying to take up exactly the right amount of space.

They stand side by side in silence; Draco quickly loses track of time, actually. He's always loved Christmas lights, and the magic of the evening has drawn him in. He lets himself relax, standing in Harry's space until they are breathing in sync. The air to his left is colder, and he knows he is accidentally leaning in; he doesn’t try to correct himself.

“Draco,” Harry states suddenly. “There's. I need to.” He freezes for a moment, fiddling with his hands and sighing. It’s mostly to himself when he mutters. “Fuck. Just… _out with it, Potter._ “

“Are you having a stroke?” Draco lifts one eyebrow at Harry and waits for him to continue.

“This is just harder than I thought it would be for some reason,” Harry remarks, frustrated. He turns around and leans back on the rail on his elbows, staring up at the larger, closer lights and taking a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”

Draco looks up at the dark sky, trying to pick out some stars beneath the London haze. “I _knew_ you'd lied about that Grindylow case! Who did it really? It was the butcher, wasn't it?” He’s teasing, trying to ease the tension, but Harry chuckles and the unnatural sound forces Draco to look over.

Harry’s turned just toward him so that he can see that the man is smiling, but it's not a normal Potter-tolerates-Malfoy smile; it's sad and wistful, and very, very concerning.

“Hey. What is it? You're starting to scare me,” Draco pushes, facing Harry fully, standing upright and anticipating the worst.

“I'm leaving the force,” Harry admits quietly. “And the Ministry, actually.”

Draco doesn’t know _what_ he was anticipating, but it definitely wasn’t _that_. He pauses, carefully analysing Harry’s face. It’s not like he’s expecting a jest, but he has to be sure.

“Um…” he says, shaking his head. “What?”

“Friday is my last day. I meant to tell you earlier, but it just...it never came up.”   
  
“Never _came up_?” Draco hisses. “Well, obviously! What, were you just planning on not turning up one day? Trying to see if I’d even notice a new partner? I suppose you and Ron took _bets._ ” He’s gotten angrier than he meant, and rather instantaneously too; he can’t account for it. He forces himself to take a deep breath and leans back on the ledge again.

“No, I promise it wasn’t intentional. I just…” Harry pushes himself off his arms and stands up. “I hate it, actually. Auroring. It’s...It’s everything I’ve been trying to avoid, Malfoy. I didn’t realise it until this year. And then, Neville suggested...well, I can’t explain it right now, really. But I was avoiding leaving, for months.”

He stops until Draco is looking at him, waiting for him to continue. Harry’s eyes are extremely shimmery in this light; either that, or he’s teared up, and since he can’t possibly explain that one, he just ignores it.   
  
“Well, there’s nothing like Christmas to clarify things,” he says, attempting nonchalance and landing somewhere between flippant and irritated instead.   
  
“Neville offered me an opportunity,” Harry continues, ignoring him. “I used to make these silly little books for Teddy when he was little. Rose reads them now. I guess he was babysitting and...well, we’re going to try our hand at publishing, actually. It’s a ridiculous idea, but I’m ready for the change.”   
  
Draco looks off into the distance, processing; it actually makes sense. Somewhere deep down, he knows Potter hasn’t been happy. He’s good at hiding it, has been since training three years ago. Maybe, for a little while, he had in fact been very _close_ to happy. As he knows himself, proximity to happiness can feel much like the real thing. For a time. Until the sheen wears off.   
  
“I want to say I’m glad for you,” Draco says eventually. “But mostly I’m thinking about how _horrible_ it’s going to be to have to deal with a new partner. I’ve only just figured out how to read your handwriting.”

Harry laughs, claps Draco on the shoulder, leans back on the rail where Draco joins him a moment later.   
  
“Why’d you wait so long?” Draco says. “Not to tell me, that I understand. I’m very unreasonable.”

He grins at Harry to show he’s joking, gets the laugh he’s hoping for, but its hollow and frightened sounding. When Harry doesn’t answer, he pushes; he really does want to know.

“Go on then. Why’d you wait so long to find something else to do? We’ve been out of training for nearly three years.”

Draco is looking at Harry earnestly in the dim glow of the ambient light, which may be why he sees the exact moment that softness eases its way into Harry’s face and the pieces slide into place. He knows before it happens, and yet it does not prepare him.   
  
“Draco,” Harry whispers, inching ever so slightly towards him. “Isn’t that obvious?”   
  
Draco is kissing him before Harry even needs to move closer; they fall into each other because they have been falling into each other for months. Maybe years.   
  
Since Draco walked into the training class that he had clawed his way into and discovered that he was sitting beside none other than Harry _bloody_ Potter. Since Harry had insisted that the binding curse that gave Draco a concussion in the middle of a duel was _not_ from his wand. Since Draco had decided that the easiest way to get through the program was to just make nice.

Since Harry had brought him tea and a sandwich on their first twelve-hour shift, nevermind that the tea was tepid and that Harry had nearly thrown the ham sandwich at him because they still weren’t speaking. Since they had solved their first case together. Since Draco had made his first self-deprecating joke in front of Harry. Since their first commendation and their first promotion and their first request not to change partners after the probation period.

Harry had been falling into and around Draco for months, since realising he needed to leave the Ministry. He seems surprised to learn that Draco had been meeting him halfway.

Unconsciously.

The kiss doesn’t feel like their first; it is gentle and more appropriate than a betting man would have placed odds on if given their history.

It is perfect.   
  
“Oh,” Draco says as he pulls back, Harry’s nose nuzzling his cheek in the chill breeze. “Oh.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, leaning down against Draco’s forehead. “Thank god for Christmas parties.”

"What if I hadn't come? You hardly gave me any notice." 

Harry is laughing when he kisses Draco for the second time; in his head, Draco is already plotting the next several moments like this one. 


	15. December 15

“Well, you look rather pleased with yourself,” Pansy says brightly and loudly. “Walking back in here at nine in the morning, like that’s a thing you do. I thought you said you were going to a  _ Christmas Party _ . I heard nothing about staying out all night.”    
  
“Pansy, I love you, but I’m tired.” He shrugs off his coat with a shiver, toes off his boots with a wince. He’s been in both far too long.   
  
“I should imagine. You had a  _ very  _ long night, after all.”    
  
Draco actually laughs at her implication; she’s never going to let him live it down when he explains just how innocent his night had been. If he can convince her to believe him, that is.    
  
“Believe it or not, Parkinson, but not all of us are as...lacivious as you.” 

“You can just say slutty,” she replies with a wave. “I worked hard for that reputation. You don’t have to tell me anything,  _ Malfoy _ , the truth is written all over your face. Though I do wish you had held out just a bit longer. I had ten galleons on New Years. I do hate having to actually  _ pay  _ Astoria.”    
  
Draco wants to rebuke her but he can’t; Pansy has always known about his weird infatuation. And Pansy is Pansy. It’s hardly surprising that she was playing silly games with the outcome of his life.   
  
Besides, he’s too happy, too tired, and way too content to be angry with her.

“Well, we only kissed. A couple of times,” he amends, “so you could always renegotiate the terms.”   
  
She comes up to him and folds herself against his back. “Draco, my love, you only  _ kissed  _ him? In approximately 12 hours you  _ kissed  _ him?” 

He nods with a huge grin and she kisses his temple. “Of course you did, you sod. I love you, you weirdo.” 

She lets him go and he decides that standing is too much effort. Without explaining himself he plods back to his bedroom, aware that she is following him. 

“You did what for the rest of the night, then? Wasn’t he hosting a party? A family party?” 

Draco frowns. He does actually feel a little bit bad about that still, even though Harry had insisted that after the cocktails started flowing and the kids had left, people stopped questioning where he was. They watched the last of the revellers leave at about midnight from their vantage point on the roof. They hadn’t moved since that first kiss, with Draco embarrassingly entranced by the lights and Harry more than happy to cast warming charm after warming charm just to keep him talking. Spread flat on the ground, hands interwoven, they had honestly talked for hours. At some point, silence had fallen, stared up at the lights instead, just breathing. 

“Relax,” Pansy huffs, laying down next to him on the bed. “Merlin, Draco, I can practically  _ hear  _ your worry from here. The man chose you. He did. You can calm down now. It’s over.”    
  
“Fuck off, Parkinson,” he murmurs, tucking his head against her shoulder.   
  
“Are you happy, Draco?” she asks quietly. He simply mutters an affirmative, his eyes fluttering closed. She pulls a blanket up around his shoulders and kisses his temple again. “Good. Then I can tell you that you aren’t going to be able to call me ‘Parkinson’ much longer. You’ll have to get it out of your system.”    
  
His eyes snap open and he grins at her, hugging her close beneath him. “Pansy!” he exclaims. “You asked her! She said yes?”   
  
“She said yes. And she agreed to let me take her name. It was disgustingly romantic and I am not ready to talk about it. Sleep. Then you can go on and on and on about how nice Potter smells and we can both throw up at how obscenely inappropriate our combined happiness is.”    
  
“Okay.” His agreement is placid. He is almost asleep against the warmth of her body. The words filter through just as she stands to leave and he reaches out and grabs her hand to stop her going. “Hang on, no. Don’t do that. We deserve to be happy. Happy with the  _ right  _ people. We chose our own destinies, Pans. Don’t forget that.”    
  
Even though his foggy exhaustion, he can see her gaze shift to the wall behind his bed; there, the crest of Hogwarts is engraved in silver and green on a large canvas. He made it. It’s hideous. But he keeps it because he  _ made  _ it, with his own two hands, and it reminds him that he makes his life and chooses who he is and what represents him. It reminds her too. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” she scoffs. “Sleep, you fool. Love you.”    


“Love you, too.”

* * *

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later to the aggressive tapping of an owl at the window. The parchment he finds attached is wrinkled and aged, and it makes him grin before he even reads it. 

_ Draco, _

_ Sorry this paper sucks so much. Guess I’m going to have to own proper parchment if I’m going to make books, hey? I wanted to… I think thank you, although now that I’m actually writing that it sounds ridiculous. So maybe never mind.  _

_ I like kissing you. I hope you’ll let me do it again sometime. In the meantime, I just found out I get to interview my special forces replacement. I’m choosing someone with terrible handwriting. _

_ I know it’s kinda oafish to contact you right away, but fuck it. Want to go out with me? Like, properly.   
_ _   
_ __ Did I mention I liked kissing you? 

_ Yeah. Whatever. _

__ \- Harry _ _

Harry Potter is an idiot. An oaf. He doesn’t spell things properly and he’s a huge dork. He makes stupid comments and finds his own jokes funny. He’s a half-blood and he’s against everything Draco used to believe. He’s rich all on his own. He’s completely wrong for a Malfoy heir.   
  
Draco responds with a resounding  _ yes  _ to a proper date, before the owl has a chance to leave. 


	16. December 16

With the party finally over for the year, Harry is able to attend to normal life things that he was supposed to have done for at least a month. Though it is hardly the best one ever, the morning after wakes him from a sort of fog that he floats around in for the first couple of weeks of December.

This always happens when Teddy comes home from school; he remembers that there are responsibilities he has outside of work and that he occasionally has to take care of himself. Unfortunately, that currently means that he has to go to Diagon and Gringotts, though the thought of doing so this close to Christmas makes him want to throw up. He throws on his nicest jacket and his best shoes and actually combs out his hair; there will be photographers because there always are, and if he’s going to deal with paparazzi, he sure as hell isn’t going to give them any reason to spin the headline into something pathetic.

He tramps around the house searching for Teddy, though when he finds him in the library, he wonders aloud why he didn’t just look there first. Teddy is sitting in the library curled into the same chair that he's been curled in since he was five-years-old. He isn’t doing much of anything, though his face is wearing what Harry thinks of as _sullen Teddy no 5_ . He’s almost jealous of the contemplation the young man always seems to accomplish; Harry has never been particularly good at doing nothing at all. He steps into the light and takes it all in. Teddy doesn’t look at him. with a start, Harry remembers that it's the sixteenth. _Tomorrow_ his brain whispers. He falters a little but clears his throat.

Their arguing over the past few days has been frustrating, but nothing he can’t handle. He’s been here for this kid for a while. Families fight. He’s not going anywhere. He gets why Teddy is frustrated, but Harry also thinks its possible he doesn’t really understand. He can admit that Teddy has grown up in the past year. When he speaks now, Harry can hear the fully formed opinions, the maturity, the _adult_ ness of him in general. Harry doesn’t feel like his friends who are parents, but that’s likely because he hadn’t been Teddy’s only caregiver for that long; he can account for every moment of the time they’ve spent together and he’s proud to see him ready to face his life.

He pulls himself out of his reflective reminiscence to find Teddy watching him with an irritated gaze. Harry smiles, trying to keep things light though he can tell Teddy’s mood is not going to appreciate the attempt.

“I going to do the thing at the bank. You want to come?”

Teddy stares at him. Harry decides to soldier bravely on.   
  
“Maybe we can get you some new boots?” he says.

“There's nothing wrong with my boots,” Teddy spits, turning away from him again to stare at the fire.

All at once, Harry gives up.

“Well, suit yourself. I'll be back around noon maybe we can get some lunch. We need to talk about some things.”   
  
Teddy scoffs. “Can't wait.”

* * *

When Harry makes it into the city, he’s already too frustrated with the world to care about Teddy and his snit. He doesn’t actually give a shit, if he’s honest with himself. Teddy got a free pass for the next few days. Harry was made of tougher stuff than getting irritated with a person who he loved and who was completely entitled to his irritation.

The line at the bank is actually not too bad, though Harry chaulks that up to the fact that most people are running in and out again, simply taking out money or transferring funds and other regular holiday bank needs. Instead, he’s in the queue for client services, and even though the staff is typically filled with the most ancient and lethargic goblins Harry as ever seen, he’s into a cubicle only a half hour later, Christmas miracles finding him early.

A goblin turns up a second later with a sour expression on his weathered face. He braces himself to be taken through the wringer when the Goblin throws a large, dusty file up on the table between them.

“Potter,” he says gruffly. “Briasz. It’s good to _finally_ see you.”   
  
“Yes,” Harry sighs in response. “I am sorry for the delay in—”

“The letter was sent to your primary address sixty-two days ago. A second letter was sent to your business address thirty-three days ago,” Briasz gripes. “We are every so _grateful_ to be blessed with your patronage this close to the Yuletide closure” 

Harry remembers that he is sitting in front of a Gringotts goblin and puts on his firmest voice; he can be downright frightening when he wants to be. He’s pretty sure it's not going to impress the ancient curmudgeon, but he definitely needs at least _try_ to keep the upper hand if he’s getting out of here any time soon.

“I am here to transfer the accounts of Edward John Lupin to his own personal holdings since he’s come of age. That includes his property, and his inherited accounts. And I’d like to withdraw 1000 galleons from my accounts and have them transferred to his.” He stares Briasz down, with his letters, identification, and Teddy’s key in his outstretched hand. “And I’d like to be out of here in an hour.”

Briasz glares at him until Harry adds a ‘please’; when he finally takes his proffered evidence and toddles away, Harry is sure that he has pissed him off. Since goblins are rarely what he classifies as 'happy', he shakes it off and stares down the long, dark hallway leading to the safety deposit boxes and the inner offices and settles in to wait. 

He waits an excruciatingly long time for the goblin to return; for the first twenty minutes, he stares at the intricate pattern on the tiled ceiling. The next twenty, he watches the variety of people and creatures that come and go beyond the glass partition of the customer service annexe. Finally, at the hour mark, Briasz is lurching down the aisle towards him with an entirely different expression than the one he wore before; he almost looks like he’s in pain. He is being followed by another goblin who is carrying a much fancier and very official looking leather folio. Suddenly, Harry _knows_ something is wrong.

“Good afternoon, Mr Potter,” the new goblin says with a low bow. “I am Finnius. I am the manager on duty today. I have been helping Briasz in the back with this rather complicated matter. I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.”

Harry stands up unconsciously, his body taught. He knows this reaction is inappropriate, but he is instantly on guard. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Have I missed a document?”

“No, sir, that is—you see, as you know, the case of Master Lupin is rather complicated because of the transfer laws. After the unexpected death of his parents, the custody should have been given to his legal godfather—”

“Yes,” Harry growls. “And now he is of age, so I need to sign the succession papers to transfer his holdings. I have already been through all of this with my solicitor.”   
  
“Yes, I know, but that is not the problem, sir,” Finnius says. He actually does sound apologetic. The tone is doing nothing to comfort him. “It seems that there has been a magical bind switch. It sometimes happens with old families. Your godson was cared for by his maternal grandmother prior to her death.”   
  
“Please stop telling me things I already know,” Harry snarls. “Get to the point.”   
  
“Well, it seems that you are not Master Lupin’s legal guardian,” Finnius says in a rush. “In fact, it seems that you _never_ were.”   
  
“ _Excuse_ me?” Harry hisses. The thought is preposterous. 

“So you see, I cannot transfer things out of your name and into his. You will need the permission of his current legal guardian. I can provide you with contact details, but the situation is rather complicated…”

As they stand in the stuffy, entombed air that always seems to permeate Gringotts of its large atrium and vaulted ceilings, Harry Potter’s brain shifts into overdrive. Teddy’s life has _always_ been complicated; having this dithering, prostrating goblin standing in front of him and telling him that was the least helpful thing he had ever experienced. But it did provide some clarity. Suddenly, out of the chaotic fog that has engulfed the last three years, Harry finds the simplicity of _completely understanding._

“If you’ll excuse me for my bluntness, Finnius,” he says through gritted teeth. “But that is a fucking understatement.”

He gathers his coat from the back of the chair, scoops his paperwork out of the arms of a very startled Briasz, and begins to walk away.   
  
“Mr Potter, sir,” the goblin calls after him. “The contact information?”   
  
“I really _don’t_ need help with that,” he calls back. “Good day, sirs.”


	17. December 17

He wakes up with an aching back and neck, but he immediately shifts from sleepy incoherence to alert relief; Teddy has stayed the night. Harry knows this because he is on the floor of his own bedroom, watching Teddy’s sleeping form as it softly rises and falls from Harry's bed, where he'd stayed for hours, sobbing silently until he'd fallen asleep. Harry had been planning on staying awake to make sure Teddy didn't disappear. He was very happy that Teddy had stayed despite his failure to keep his eyes open. 

The previous afternoon had been long and tumultuous; after the bank, Harry had intended to floo to Pansy’s, force her to take him straight to Draco; instead, he'd been confronted with the reality of Edward Lupin himself, sitting on the front steps with a duffle packed at his feet, looking utterly miserable. 

“Don’t worry,” Teddy had declared as soon as he'd seen Harry. “I’m going. You don’t have to… you don’t have to deal with me anymore.”  
  
Harry had gone into full panic mode. Teddy was not a dramatic person; a packed bag and a prepared speech were not a bluff. “Teddy, what are you on about? Get back inside, it’s freezing," he'd insisted.  
  
“You went to the bank, yeah?" Teddy had already been on the verge of tears. "So now you know everything. I’ve called my mate in Dorchester. He says I can stay until N.E.W.T.s. And then I’ll get a job. So… it’s fine.”

“Teddy Lupin, what the hell are you on about?”  
  
“The fact that you aren’t my guardian. I've been lying." At this point, he'd stood up, shouldered his bag, started walking down the walk. "I promise I’ll pay you back for the past few years. I didn’t mean to lie to you, but—”  
  
“Teddy,” Harry had interrupted harshly, panic rising in his throat. “Slow. Down. Come inside. We can talk about it.”  
  
“Aren’t you going to ask how long I’ve known?” Teddy asked miserably. “Because it’s a long time.” He sat down heavily on the damp stoop and glanced up at Harry. “I’ve known the _whole_ time. Since that day.”

* * *

** December 17, Three Years Earlier  **

The week before Christmas was surely designed as torture for law enforcement. Draco hasn’t felt this harried and frazzled since… well, since his last Christmas at the Manor, but he tries not to think about that. Christmas crap in the Auror department hasn’t quite been the same since Harry’s departure. Sure, his new partner was competent and tolerable. Most days, Draco actually likes him. And sure, it’s nice to go _home_ to Harry, with his warm home cooking and lovely afters containing too much cuddling for Draco’s case—or so he claims for the sake of his image.

Nonetheless, he’s been chasing the ends of paperwork for the entire morning and now he has to sit through an interminable briefing when he should have been out on his beat dealing with the insanity of the exploding black-market Christmas shrubs that have made their way into Diagon.

He’s pushed his limits to get to the pit in time; in fact, as he scribbles his last signature in quick-dry ink on an M-439 1a, he’s already late. It’s probably just instinctual when he picks up the ringing phone on his desk, and he winces before the receiver is even at his ear. It’s not that he can’t handle the reprimands of the superiors, but he’d rather just silently sit in the corner making case notes.

“Malfoy,” he says robotically.

“Draco?” Harry is on the other end of the line, but he sounds even more frazzled than Draco feels. “Draco, I know it’s busy there, I’m sorry. I just needed to….Draco, I think I need to…”

“Harry, slow down,” Draco insists. “Is something wrong?”  
  
“Andromeda,” Harry replies simply. “I hate to ask but is there any chance you can—”

“I’ll go tell Merv I’m leaving. Ten minutes, Hare.” Draco hangs up without saying goodbye and dashes from the office, grabbing his coat from the back of the door.

He’s standing in the living room eight minutes later, mostly because he barely _said_ anything to Merv beyond ‘emergency, back when I can’. The luxury may or may not be there, but he’s going to have to wait until later to find out.  
  
“Harry!” he calls into the house loudly. When Harry appears at the door, he looks like he’s going to be sick. “Oh, Harry. Come on. Sit.”

They sit together on the sofa and Harry seems to exhale for the first time in many hours.  
  
“I don’t know why I’m being like this. We _knew_ this was coming. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”  
  
“Doesn’t make death easier, though. It’s okay, you don’t have to be anything you aren’t, Harry.” Draco folds him under his arm as Harry’s head falls into his hands.

“Do I have to bring him here? I do, don’t I.” Harry is shaking a little bit when he looks up to Draco for an answer. He just nods. “It was only two more days,” Harry laments. “Two days and he would have been home anyway. Now I’ve got to go pull him from school.” “  
  
“He won’t forgive you if you don’t,” Draco replies gently. “Do you want me to call McGonnagall. She said to let her know and she’d help.”  
  
“I have to go to the house too,” Harry is sitting up now, his arms on his knees. The expression, grim determination and laser purpose, is uncomfortable to see after so much time has passed. It is the face of a former life. The face of a soldier.  
  
“Which do you want to do less?” Draco asks honestly. He’s practical and he’s going to be helpful even if he feels like shrinking away from the responsibility of taking care of people like they are family.  
  
“Honestly? House,” Harry replies, seeming relieved.

“On it,” Draco says, kissing Harry on the temple and standing up. “Let’s go get Teddy. He needs to be here.”  
  
“He’s only ever known her.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Draco insists. “He has you, love. Come on. This is going to be fine.”

Four hours later, three trips to the bathroom to throw up, and a cigarette snuck on the roof, and Draco is no longer so sure. He is irrationally wishing he had gone to the school instead, though he knows that everything that has transpired has been completely unavoidable. As his brain reels and plots, plans and tries to find an escape route, it also realises that it’s probably better that he knows _now_.

He is still on the roof when Teddy finds him; he has been strangely stoic since Harry had sat him down. Draco suspects that he has been planning for the news for weeks. Andromeda being ill had been a reality for him for nearly three years. He was not an emotional child; sometimes, Draco saw a sad realism in him that was so similar to everyone he knew that he wondered if Teddy did, in fact, remember the war.

“Hi, Draco,” he says, leaning on the roof beside him and smiling sadly at the lights. “I just… I needed to see them for a minute.”

“Of course,” Draco replies. “Do you need me to leave?”  
  
“No,” Teddy says quickly. “Please, don’t. I think if you go down, Uncle Harry will come find me. I love him, but he’s making me feel like I’m not… doing it right.”  
  
“Doing what right, Ted?”  
  
“Being sad.”  
  
“He doesn’t think that,” Draco insists. “He’s just worried about you. He loves you. We both do.”  
  
Teddy freezes for a minute and looks at Draco with eyes that are decades older than they are in reality; the gaze makes Draco shiver, cements several things in his mind. He is out of time.

He wants to burst into tears.  
  
“Do you?” Teddy asks quietly. “Are you worried about me too?”  
  
Draco wraps a firm arm around Teddy’s shoulders and pulls him close.

“Ted,” he says quietly, leaning on the boy’s head gently. “You have no idea how much I worry about both of you. But it’s going to be okay. I promise."

* * *

Teddy’s up and downstairs before Harry has finished poaching the eggs. The hollandaise is defrosted, though, and he’s well on his way to getting eggs benny before the morning is through. When Harry notices him standing in the kitchen door, still in sleep stuff and sporting bubblegum hair, his heart stops pounding quite so hard.  
  
“You can relax, Uncle,” he teases. “I’ve stopped having a mini-meltdown. No need to coddle me. Not even today."   
  
“Tradition," Harry responds robotically. He's very happy to have Teddy standing in this kitchen. He's also extremely distressed that he'd never been worried that one day, Teddy wouldn't be. "Besides, we might need extra hollandaise, don't we? Because you are about to tell me the entire story."   
  
"The one where I have known for _two years_ where Draco is and why?" Teddy replies. "On the anniversary of the day where I lost my only living family?"   
  
“Hm,” Harry replies softly. “Maybe coffee first?”

"I love you," Teddy says defensively. "I want you to know that, first. I...neither of us were trying to hurt you."   
  
Harry hands him a mug and turns back to the stove. He’s not angry. Not at all. "I love you too, Teddy. Come sit down. Let's eat first, okay?" 

Harry definitely isn't angry at Draco, or at Teddy.

He’s just a little afraid. 


	18. December 18

Draco is late for the first time in years and it causes him so much panic that he is out of breath by the time he careens into Karlene’s office at ten minutes past nine, when he had agreed to meet with her.  
  
“I’m... sorry...alarm...late…” he huffs. 

“Oh dear lord, are you going to have a heart attack on me?” a brash voice replies. “I told you those sneaky cigarettes were going to catch up with you. You’re not as young as you used to be you know?”   
  
“...Meagan?” he exhales, hands on his knees. “Why?” 

“You’d better sit down,” Karlene says kindly, knocking out a chair with her wand and sending the pile of books behind it tumbling to the ground. 

He sits, if for no other reason than his lungs’ protestations that he is going to die otherwise. He slumps down to look up at Meagan as he takes off his coat. She seems to be wearing an outfit made from glitter, with gold sequins in an overlong sweater and trousers made from bronze lamé. The whole outfit is accented with an honest-to-goodness tophat. He looks back at Karlene with a wry expression. 

“So, I suppose you’ve met Meagan?” 

“She’s delightful!” Karlene cries. “Nothing at all like you suggested.” 

She cackles at her own wit and Meagan just grins. “Well then,” he replies warily. “To what do I owe this absolutely horrendous surprise?” 

Karlene sits down behind her desk and his heart bottoms out. He has never, in all the time he’s worked here, seen Karlene sit in a chair. 

“She’s arrived yesterday, on your day off, with a letter from a solicitor in London,” Karelene says significantly. “We’ve been trying to decide what to do about it since then.”

“We’ve come to a mutual decision,” Meagan continues. “One that is going to benefit everyone, in the long run.” 

“Yes,” Karlene says. She looks at her hands and when she faces him again, she has tears in her eyes. “I’m letting you go.” 

The words take a moment to filter through. When they do, it is to a wash of panic and sadness, confusion and clarity, and a million other emotions that all settle at once. 

In a voice barely above a whisper, he agrees. 

“I don’t want to,” Karlene says hastily, “But you need to go home. I really think this whole mess you’ve created is unnecessary. You’ve always been so… sad. So forlorn. And Meagan tells me that the reason is that you’ve been selfless, but incredibly dumb. So I’m firing you. I’m firing you because otherwise, I think you may stay too scared to go back and undo this thing you’ve done.”    


“Karelene, I wish I could —”   
  
“You don’t have to explain,” she interjects, hesitating a moment before she adds, “Draco.” 

He startles a little and glares at Meagan, who simply shrugs. “You know she’s right,” she insists. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting it. I get what happened. And so will he, when you explain. The reasons you left don’t exist anymore. So go back. Fix it properly this time.” 

“It’s too late,” Draco replies miserably, ashamed of the crack in his voice. “He’s not the same person he was. I know he isn’t. He’s so angry—”  
  
“Wouldn’t you be?” Karlene is staring at him, and she has stood back up, which somehow calms him. “You would be angry too. But you still want him. I can see it, even without knowing anything. So go. Tell him that. If nothing else, at least you’ll have tried.”    
  
“It’s almost Christmas,” Meagan adds. “And I  _ may  _ have already boxed up all your stuff and sent it to Pansy and Astoria’s. So.”    
  
“For the record, I tried to convince her not to do that,” Karlene says with a small grin. 

“It’s fine, lovely,” Draco sighs automatically. “That’s just...Meagan. And to be honest…”    
  
“He was already going to go,” Meagan finishes for him, gathering him into a bear hug that takes his breath. 

* * *

Having unpacked his suit while Astoria stood watch, babbling away about a variety of Christmas plans that he will now get to participate in, Draco has no regrets. Being back in London, under a grey sky and a winter drizzle, everything he is feels _right._ He had never really considered that he missed home, but since London was the only place that had ever felt home, he guesses it makes sense. Even without Harry, he feels a little bit more balanced, a little bit safer. It's possible that's just because, for the first time in years, he is hiding nothing. 

He walks into the offices of Scrimhack and Smythe at exactly 2 pm that same afternoon. It's much easier to be on time for this meeting because he has been pacing on the street outside for approximately an hour. The person sitting at the desk in the reception area is definitely younger than him, and when he offers Draco a coffee, he’s confused for a moment. He realises after a beat that it’s because the kid had called him  _ Mr Malfoy _ .

The name doesn’t quite feel like his anymore. 

“No, uh, I’m fine,” he replies eventually. The kid sends him into a large, sleek office right away, where he continues to pace some more. He has just decided that thinking of the office administrator as a ‘kid’ may be a bit uncharitable when a deep, booming voice assaults him from the doorway. 

“Why Draco Malfoy, as I live and breathe,” it shouts. “I truly never thought this day would come. Please, sit! Did Tyler offer you something to drink? Let’s get started.” 

“I...yes, he did,” Draco answers lamely as they both sit. “Mr Smythe.”   
  
“You look nothing like your mother,” he replies.    
  
“I’d like to get straight to the topic at hand,” he says through gritted teeth. “Namely, the estate and inheritance of Edward Lupin.” 

“Well, obviously that is the business at hand,” Smythe scoffs. “Would you like to begin by clarifying what you already know?”    
  
“Well,” Draco begins. “All I am really positive about is that I am still the sole inheriter for Andromeda Tonks, nee Black. And that I am therefore the executor of Teddy’s estate.” 

“A good place to begin, now that he is of age,” Smythe nods. “Shall we add the information of the legal suit against you?” 


	19. December 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late chapter is late. Sorry :(

In a classic instance of “the magical community of London is way too fucking small”, Harry _hears_ about Draco being back in town before he actually runs into him. It's all anyone can talk about around the office, and although they all fall silent when they see him coming, he puts his excellent past-Auror skills to good use and has eavesdropped on their conversations by eleven that morning.

He's not sure how he feels; in fact, he's so conflicted about it that he has been sitting at his desk for an hour and a half with the door locked on the other side, ignoring calls and simply staring at the blank wall behind his desk.

Draco being back is obviously not a good thing; whatever has brought him back to the city, unshrouded by secrecy and waltzing around Diagon undisguised can only be something that is going to cause Harry pain and anger. He's already frustrated just thinking about it.

The problem, though, is that as angry as he has always been, as betrayed and hurt and confused, he's also already forgiven Draco. No one ever believed him when he said this; well, mostly, Pansy and Hermione didn't. They each had their own reasons not to believe him, though, and he knew what was true. If Draco were to walk back in that door right now, Harry knows without question he'd want him back. Hours and hours of fights, many drinks and gifts, and countless grovel sessions would happen before he would admit it, obviously, but he would take him back eventually.

The reason for this carte blanche Harry had prepared was simple; even now, he loved Draco. He trusted him. That love and that trust had taken years to cultivate. It had been born out of the ashes of betrayal and remorse, hardship and a literal war. For three years, Draco had been by Harry's side for every single moment. Every point of hard work and a career change. The sudden and irrevocable burden of parenting an adolescent.

When he had disappeared, Draco's cryptic note had said it was necessary. For their family. He and Draco's _family._ He was sad and he was angry, but Harry was also convinced that Draco had done what he felt necessary.

Having remembered this whole internal conversation now, however, Harry is still frozen in what he does now. He doesn't really want to rely on fate, run into Draco when he does and that's that. He also isn't ready to march over to Pansy and Astoria's house and demand a confrontation. That's not what he needs.

Instead, as the last of his sanity leaves him, he decides that fire calling Ron at work is the only solution left to him.

Ron merely nods as though he has been waiting for Harry to call, and says the terrifying phrase, “I'm on it”, before telling Harry to go home and stop worrying.

Since his final edits before the holiday break are done, and since it's almost three o'clock and owns the damn company anyway, Harry does exactly that. He decides to make Teddy's favourite baked pasta, with sauce from scratch, and he throws on his beloved Bing Crosby Christmas LP to set the stage. He is fully apron-wearing, wooden-spoon singing, chef-hat-from-a-takeaway-box levels of ridiculous when he realises he is not alone in the kitchen.

Out of the corner of his eye, the fire has burst green and two figures are now standing in the room with him, watching.

Ron, covered in too much soot because he never has decided to start being cautious when he floos.

And Draco, the exact opposite in his immaculate white shirt and dark green trousers. Harry's mouth goes dry as Bing sings _Mele Kalikimaka_ too loudly for the situation.

“Um, hey,” Draco shrugs. Harry remains frozen in place.

“I brought him,” Ron says, as though it clarifies everything. Harry turns his gaze on his best friend.

The fire behind them both flared again, and in quick succession, Hermione and Pansy fall out of the fire, both out of breath and dirty. It's clear they've been arguing.

“I tried not to let him do this,” Hermione whines, grabbing Ron's arm and shaking her head. “But I figured if he was going to, Pansy should be here too.”

“And _I_ tried to stop them both from interfering but I seem to have lost that battle,” Pansy complains, muttering ‘bloody Gryffindor’ under her breathe.

“Oh yes,” Harry spits. “This conversation should _definitely_ be a spectator sport. Please, stay for dinner. By all _fucking_ means.”

He crosses his arms, sending an angry charm at the record player to turn off the music first. They all look a bit sheepish, and Draco just looks miserable.

“Uncle Draco,” a new voice says at the door. Because of course, Teddy has inevitably arrived. This soap opera is complete. The timer on the oven goes off before Draco has a chance to reply.

Harry finally snaps.

“You know what,” he begins calmly. “I was kidding before but now I'm serious. All of you into the dining room while I get this out of the oven.”

“Harry,” Hermione pleads, “I don't think—”

“N _ow_ ,” Harry growls, gesturing with the spatula in his hand. He must have started looking truly deranged because they all slink off through the main door and leave the kitchen bizarrely silent in their wake.

* * *

Ten minutes later and they are all sitting in extremely awkward silence around a large tossed salad and a pan of pasta, plates are laden but with only Ron having started eating. Hermione glares at him, but he just shrugs. Harry hears him whisper ‘not my drama, _is_ my pasta a la Harry’.

He wishes he could say the same.

“Right then,” he says too loudly, making everyone jump. “Dig in. I think Harry has a story to tell us all over pudding.”

“I think that may actually be my story to tell,” Teddy mumbles through a mouthful of pasta. “I will, though.”  
  
On some unspoken agreement, the table falls into uncomfortable, tacit silence as they eat. For whatever reason, everyone finishes everything in front of them, waiting as Harry clears everything back into the kitchen. When he simply sits back down, folds his arms in front of him, and stares straight ahead, Ron, Teddy, and Draco all simultaneously clear their throats.

“When Nan got sick,” Teddy begins, “she had me start clearing out Grandad’s study. We never used to go in there. I think it made her too sad. I was mostly just moving boxes out for her to go through.”  
  
“Teddy, you were only _fourteen_ ,” Draco interrupts suddenly. “He doesn’t need to tell this story. I can.”  
  
“Uncle Draco,” Teddy says angrily. “Just let me finish. Anyway, one day I dropped one and a bunch of documents fell out. One of the envelopes had my name on it. Like, my full name. I may have made her tell me what was inside.”

He pauses, looking at Harry as though he is in pain; but Harry is unavailable for comfort, even though in the back of his mind, he knows he needs to offer it. Teddy gulps and continues.

“Harry is my godfather. We all know that. I have paperwork saying he’s my godfather. Nan always talked about it as though when she was gone, I went to his house. He’s...well, you know this. I don’t need to tell you. He half raised me. It made sense to me.”  
  
“That’s not how Pureblood families work,” Draco said quietly from the other end of the table.  
  
“Yes, but no one ever thought about that, did they now?” Teddy interjects loudly. “I wasn't _raised_ a Pureblood, was I! My grandmother was disowned, I’m barely even half-blood. And, oh yeah, that’s right, my parents died in a war trying to _stop all that bullshit._ Blood status wasn’t exactly something we talked about!”

He pushes back his chair so forcefully it falls over and begins pacing around the room. He does not continue for a moment and Draco sighs.  
  
“He found out from that paperwork that _I_ was to inherit all of his possessions. Tonks was a Black. With no other children in our family, I am the sole inheritors.” He pauses to look at Harry, who is carefully not meeting his eye and chooses to instead stare at Hermione, who is nodding. It makes sense that she would already understand. She probably is already at the end of this story, ready to explain to everyone else when he fails.

“With Teddy, if he was underage, I was also to become his guardian. It’s...it’s an old law. There is a binding magical clause. It’s very hard to circumvent. And even though they never spoke to her again, no one ever properly disowned Andromeda.”  
  
“So the original clause stood,” Hermione says quietly, nodding then turning to Teddy. “You would have gone to Draco.”

“It’s worse than that,” Draco continues. “That wouldn’t have really been an issue, to be honest. At that point, Harry and I were together. Teddy came to me after he found the papers. I took them to my solicitor.”  
  
“Uncle Harry, you have to know I wanted to tell you,” Teddy says miserably, sitting back down. He’s on the verge of tears.  
  
“He couldn’t. Not like, didn’t. He _couldn’t_ . My grandmother had a tongue-tie curse put on it.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
This is from Ron, who is suddenly leaning forward. Harry still has not spoken.

“Because of the other clause that she added,” Draco replies. “The order stated that if Andromeda died, Teddy was to be removed from all contact with Harry. I was to raise him with the ‘proper ethical morality of a Pureblood’.”  
  
“ _What_ ?” Hermione demands, disgusted. “When?!”  
  
“It would appear that she made the changes right when Andromeda left to marry Ted. It was created so that it would right itself into the will of all future offspring for the next five generations. Obviously, she didn’t exactly know what was going to happen to her precious fucking blood-status. She didn’t know about me or Harry Potter, or that I would — well, the point is, the solicitors tried for nearly a year to fix it.”  
  
“But then she died,” Teddy whispers. “She died and they hadn’t fixed it and then Draco disappeared and I knew and I didn’t say anything even though I knew how upset you were and that it was all my fault and—”  
  
“Woah,” Draco interrupted firmly. “Woah, Teddy, no. _Fourteen_ . You were a kid. You didn’t do _anything_ wrong.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything when I—”

Draco’s chair scrapes back so suddenly that Ron almost leaps from his chair. Draco ignores him, however, and moves around the table. Without hesitation, he folds Teddy into a hug; the action immediately makes Teddy look decades younger. He falls apart, embracing Draco firmly with a sob that Harry can’t ignore.  
  
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Draco insists. “You didn’t do anything at all. I left so that the will couldn’t be enforced. I didn’t tell anyone so that no one else would get hurt by my fucked up family. That’s not your fault.”  
  
Harry watches this scene for a moment more. He stands.

He leaves the room. Behind him, Hermione is calling his name; he keeps on walking down the corridor and out the front door. The second his feet hit the front steps, he hears a frustrated shout of anguish.

It takes him almost a full minute to realise the sound is coming from his own mouth.


	20. December 20, Three Years Earlier

Teddy has finally fallen asleep, lying on the sofa and wrapped in three blankets. Both Draco and Harry are wiped, emotionally frayed; neither of them have ever lost a parent in this way. Harry barely remembers his own parents, and although he feels the loss keenly quite often, he knows it isn’t the same. Draco has two parents still living, even if one is technically in jail for the foreseeable future and has disowned him. It is not this. It is not the only adult you have ever known disappearing on you at fourteen after so much time to prepare that things should have been easier and are somehow much, much worse. 

“McGonagall says she’s cancelled his exams,” Harry murmurs, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. They are on the floor beside Teddy. Harry had started out there, rubbing Teddy’s back as he sobbed and at some point, Draco had just migrated into his space and never left. He hums his assent and puts an arm across Harry’s shoulders.   
  
“I’ll stay here. You should go get some rest,” he says eventually as Harry yawns again.   
  
“You should just come to bed. He’s asleep,” Harry sighs. 

“What if he wakes up?” Draco insists. “I’ll stay. We can deal with everything else tomorrow.”   
  
“Draco,” he replies, standing up, apparently too tired to argue with him. “Do you want to move in?” 

Draco just stares at him for a moment. He has no way to answer this question, not right now. Not after what he has decided on the roof; he always thought that he’d have more time. Every time a meeting with the lawyers ended with another failed attempt, he would think about the last time he saw Andromeda and think ‘it’s fine. They’ll fix it soon.’ Today, though—or yesterday, rather, since it is well past midnight—he had finally been faced with the truth. 

The wards on her house had only opened for him. The items in the great oak chest that should have belonged to Teddy sprang to attention the moment he was in the house. When Smythe showed up, he confirmed the transfer. 

And now, of course, he had to leave. 

“Harry, you know I do,” he says finally, aware of the fact that he has been staring. “Can we talk about this in the morning? It’s been an incredibly long day. Go. Sleep. I’ll come in when I think he’s settled.” 

Harry nods, clearly seeing sense, and pads away down the hallway. 

“Teddy,” Draco whispers when he knows Harry is in the bathroom and out of earshot. The boy doesn’t stir. “Teddy, take care of him, okay?”    
  
He hesitates before continuing. Saying this out loud makes everything very real all of a sudden; Draco once again feels sick. “I have a feeling you know. But you can’t tell him, okay? It isn’t safe. Not for you. Not for him. I love him. That will keep being true. But… help him, okay? To move on.”    
  
“Uncle Draco?” Teddy whispers in the darkness. “Did I fall asleep?”    
  
“Yes,” says Draco sadly. “Yes, you did, kiddo. Want to go to your bed.”    
  
Teddy nods, stands up, pats Draco on the shoulder as he walks away. Draco can’t help but wander around the house one more time, picking up odds and ends, remnants of a life he was already mostly living here. 

When he steps into the floo, he can barely see. He is probably not really crying; the clouded vision feels more like certain blindness and partial death. 


	21. December 21

Pansy was the one who dragged him home to her soft living room and Astoria’s very strong hot toddy, so she definitely knows what time he finally went to sleep. Even if she _doesn’t_ know that he tossed and turned, she should be acutely aware that he is not ready to be getting up yet.

Let alone going fucking _Christmas Shopping._

“Draco Abraxas, you will get your lazy, sodding arse out of that bed right now, or so _help_ me. Astoria says I have to get you out of the house today, and _I_ need to go to the shops. Ergo, _you_ are coming to the shops!”

She throws a pillow on top of him, where it does very little damage since it is both a pillow and the third one she has thrown. It floats harmlessly onto the pile of bedding that has already consumed him and creates extra darkness in his Cave of Misery. He plans to stay here all day long.

“Draco,” a new voice says. He pokes his head out to find Astoria’s delicate blonde head floating by the door. “If I take the mean lady away, will you get up and put on those delicious grey trousers I helped you unpack? There are coffee and danishes in the kitchen, and I promise to make her wait until you’ve had both.”  
  
“ _Tori_ ,” Pansy whines. “It’ll be half fucking _ten_ before his majesty has had his breakfast.”  
  
“Pansy, darling, won’t you come and help me fix the star on the tree? It’s gone crooked.”  
  
Draco chuckles despite himself as Pansy has followed Astoria out of his room with an exasperated sigh. For some reason, the sudden silence causes him acute pain and he gets up quickly. He throws on the soft trousers that Astoria had referenced, pairs it with a dark blue turtleneck, and dashes to the washroom with his socks in his hands, hoping against hope that Pansy doesn’t see him.

He looks just as he’d expected to; death warmed over, sprinkled with a healthy serving of just plain old. His hair is limp and uncooperative, and no amount of cold water on his face can help with the splotchy-paleness or the dark circles. He sighs, pulls on his socks, and heads out to face his jailer.

Miraculously, he is in fact allowed breakfast before he is forced into the Floo that takes them to the middle of Muggle London, an old magical pub standing as a waylay

He freezes outside the shop, almost against his will. His attention has been stolen by a large piece of glass art; shaped like an arched window with a complex forest scene. It is full of bright, summer-light greens and upward movement in the trees. 

By the time he realises that he has been stopped for longer than is necessary, Pansy has noticed and is circling back round to him. She tucks her arm in his and leans her head on his shoulder.

“You’re very good at gifts, you know,” she sighs. “You always have been. Not many people would think of that as the perfect gift for him, but Harry is going to love it. He’s always complaining that his office is too _inside,_ whatever the fuck that means. You could enchant it! Make it like, glow or something.”  
  
“Pansy,” Draco groans. “I was just looking. Let’s go.”  
  
“What, no! We have to go buy it for him. It’s obviously one of a kind. We have time,” she insists, checking her watch as though confirming her own statement.

“Pans, darling, I can’t buy him a _gift._ I don’t even know if he’s going to ever speak to me again.”  
  
“Exactly the occasion for lavish, unnecessary gifts!” She throws her hands in the air and grins at him; she looks very much like her seventeen-year-old self and he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth lift up. She latches onto the tiny movement. “That’s the spirit! Besides, you know if you don’t, I’ll just buy it for you.”  
  
He finally gives in; he knows this is true, even if he’s uncertain about literally everything else.  
  
“Dear Lord, you will definitely be my downfall." He massages his temples for a moment before sighing on last time. "Alright, lead the way,”

* * *

For the entire day after the encounter, Harry and Teddy barely look at each other. Harry isn’t exactly _angry_ or anything, he just doesn’t know what to say. In lieu of knowing for certain, he assumes Teddy feels the same. They cower in separate corners of the house until Harry feels so dumb and immature that he seeks Teddy out.

He finds him in the back garden, sitting on the porch swing with a novel that is bigger than Harry’s entire seventh year set of textbooks.  
  
“Mind if I join you,” he says quietly. Despite his careful approach, Teddy jumps. He nods, though, so Harry settles beside him. For a moment, neither speak.

They both practically shout at the same time, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Harry interrupts, slightly faster than Teddy and therefore the winner of the rebuttal draw. “Teddy, you have nothing to apologise for. You were a kid. You were _our_ kid. It was my job to protect you. I should have known more before Andromeda even got sick. That was my responsibility. There was no reason for me to not know.”

“No, but Uncle Harry, even if Andromeda should have been the one to tell you, I should have come to you right away when I found out. Instead, I ruined your life just so I could…”  
  
“So you could what?” Harry pushes, frowning.

“I was selfish. I didn’t want to live with anyone else. I was sure that the paperwork would just… I don’t know, go to court or whatever and then I’d have to go to live in some sort of… orphanage."  
  
Harry looks at him dubiously and Teddy chuckles.  
  
“Yeah, well, I was fourteen and had just discovered Roald Dahl. Really, I think we should blame Hogwarts for their lack of appropriate Muggle books for preteens.”

He smiles at Harry, and for a moment, _his_ Teddy is there. The one Harry had known and understood since he was five years old with a goofy toothless grin. Since he was seven and discovering his ability to change his nose. Since he was eleven bawling over his Hogwarts letter.

Suddenly, the moody, angry, lost-looking Teddy made perfect sense. He had been holding onto the belief that _he_ had done wrong for nearly three years. Trying to protect too many people and in all the wrong ways.

“Teddy,” Harry says delicately. “You didn’t ruin anything. My life has been pretty great. I changed _everything._ I was doing that anyway. I am my own person. We all fought hard for that right, love.”

Teddy nods and tries desperately to look confident. “I know, and I’m...I’m proud of you, really, I am. But you and Draco… Well, Uncle Harry, I think he was like...yours.”

Harry looks at Teddy sharply and finds a small, private, and hopeful smile on the boy’s face.  
  
“Ted,” Harry begins, wondering if this is an appropriate line of questioning with a teenager who is basically his son. “Do you think he might be still?  
  
It is Teddy’s turn to whip his head around, but this time, his face cracks open into a wild grin. “Are you serious?”  
  
Harry shrugs. “I never even tried to get over him. I always assumed it would just happen one day. I… I don’t know. I realise I should be angry at him or at least sad. Something. But…”

He stops. He has no idea how to explain the insanity of his line of thinking; he just wants things to go back to normal. He doesn’t want to dwell on anything. And he knows that’s nuts, but so is everything about him. Everything about Draco.

Teddy nods sagely and Harry smiles. “I think,” Teddy says, standing quickly. “That our first step is going to that solicitor of my aunt’s. I found his name. Took me most of the afternoon. Fucking Purebloods.”

He holds up the giant tome and says triumphantly. “Looks like we’re going into town!”


	22. December 22

When the doorbell rings, Teddy has been pacing for an hour in the entryway. He knows that pacing is not going to make anything happen any faster, but sitting down didn’t feel like an option. He runs the half metre to the door and flings it open with far more vigour than is strictly necessary. Harry has released the wards for the day, an easy feat since he owns the house. It is what they are both counting on, this tenuous thread to the Black family that will return them both to a normalcy he was sure Andromeda hadn’t meant to take.

He thought about her often when things got very bad, when his brain battled with him about what the right thing was. Had she known for years or was his discovery of the will and testament truly the first time she had heard about her mother’s hateful endowment? He wishes he could ask her.

Standing on the front porch, bewildered and as though he has no idea why he is there, is Draco. Beside him is a large package, wrapped in shimmering paper and almost judgemental in its presence.

“Oh...uh, hi?” Teddy says. It takes him a moment to rearange his face so that he doesn’t look quite as disappointed. “Come in! Sorry, we’re expecting someone else.”    
  
“Sorry, I can go,” Draco mumbles. “This is…this is…”    
  
“He’s on the roof,” Teddy tells him, taking pity. “You should go up. Do you remember the way? Though, don’t think that’ll fit through the window.”    
  
“I should just go,” Draco insists.

Teddy reaches forward and hugs Draco firmly. He seems almost surprised and it takes him a moment to hug Teddy back.    
  
“I’m so sorry,” Teddy whispers. “It’s all my fault. We can pretend it isn’t, but I know what’s what. Uncle Draco?” he asks, pulling back. “You should really go up and see him.”

Draco deflates a little bit, but nods silently, directing the gift foward with his wand and following Teddy inside. Teddy goes back to pacing as Draco moves hesitantly past him, wiping his feet carefully before he leaves the mat.

Draco stares for a full minute at the window that leads to the roof. It takes him forever to climb the stairs. When he finally reaches the landing, he stops to watch as Harry paces back and forth. It’s four in the afternoon and the lights are just starting to twinkle on, like intermitent fireflies in the dimming light. Harry is illuminated in a soft glow by the lights on his own roof; he looks beautiful.

“Oh,” he says, noticing Draco.    
  
“Teddy told me to come up,” he replies defensively.    
  
“No, it’s…” Harry stops pacing and shoves his hands in the pockets of his peacoat; it’s the deep green-nearly black one Draco had bought him for their first Christmas together. It’s a little bit frayed and unconciously, Draco thinks  _ I’ll have to buy him a new one in January _ . He gives his head a shake. He is getting ahead of himself.

“I’ll go,” Draco says, turning back to the stairs. 

“No!” Harry shouts. “No. Don’t.”    
  
“I don’t really want to,” Draco replies. “But I don’t know how to start.”    
  
“We should… here. Come sit.”

He moves to the furniture on the raised platform, which has been unchained and placed in a bubble of raidiating warm magic. Draco takes a deep breath and follows him, gingerly sitting on the other side of the table.

They haven’t been this near to each other in a long time. Harry’s cheeks have flushed deep red, and Draco knows it isn’t just the cold. There is such familiarity here; so many hours, sat just like this, looking out at the city below them with fingers intertwined on the table, silence comfortable and easy.

It is neither of those things now.

“Teddy. Is he okay? He apologised to me,” Draco beings, rushing forward so that he doesn’t panic.

“Yes, he keeps doing that.”    
  
“Well that’s silly. Since it’s my fault.”    
  
“No, Draco, don’t do that… it’s mine. It was my responsibility.”    
  
“That’s ludicrous,” Draco interjects. They stare at each other for a moment and without any written agreement, they burst into laughter. Something breaks open inside of Draco as he remembers countless hours of arguing with Auror Potter over their collective pasts, over shared cases, over where to eat lunch. They arguing, though it is leading nowhere, feels right.

“Agree to disagree?” Harry grins.

Draco shakes his head. “No, agree that we can all, collectively, blame my insane family for every ounce of hurt that has ever been caused.”    
  
He doesn’t mean to, but his arm rests on the table, his hand outstretched. He is about to snatch it back, realising how the gesture looks, when his palm is collected by the warm and familiar weight of Harry’s. His Auror ring still rests on the pinky of his right hand, and Draco spins it with his own ring finger. Just as he always has. Harry’s smile turns shyer.

“I know it’s silly that I still wear it,” he says. “But I think I just realised that  _ that  _ is why. I didn’t even know.”

Draco can’t quite meet his eyes; they are prickling with tears. “That and you’re a hopeless romantic for adventure. I’m shocked your surviving the generally boring world of paper.”    
  
“I prefer to  _ choose  _ when I go on adventures these days,” Harry replies with a smirk. “You don’t wear yours, I see.”    
  
Draco shakes his head. “I took it off when... it’s too much of a distinguishing mark. I was trying to disappear.

Harry nods, gently pulls his hand away. Stares off into the well-lit distance.    
  
“Teddy made me promise to think of something, one part of the whole thing that I was  _ angry  _ about.” He looks back at Draco expectantly, and since he can actually feel the expression this time, Draco forces himself to look up. “I figured it out last night. Couldn’t sleep much. The one thing I’m angry about is that you didn’t trust me enough to explain why. We were supposed to be doing  _ life  _ together, Draco. We could have figured it out.”    
  
Draco sighs. “Harry, do you know that you radiate happiness? Even back then, when you were stressed all the time with the new business. Even when you were exhausted and fed up. You were just so  _ happy _ . I was terrified. I was going to be the cause of ruining it all for you.” He holds up a hand when Harry tries to interrupt. “You can’t argue that. It was going to happen. I tried for months, with every lawyer I could think of. They all said the same thing. Incontrovertible, at least until the child was of age.”   
  
“Yeah, but we could have…gotten married. Or something.”    
  
“See, this is exactly the point, Potter,” Draco chuckles. “You’re just such a  _ solver _ . You would have said ‘Don’t worry, we’ll work it out!’, as though that was actually a plan or something. It would have infuriated me, and also not worked. I don’t even know.”    
  
“Well, okay, but...never again.”    
  
“What?”    
  
“Never. Again. You don’t get to make a big decision or try to fix everything all on your own again. That’s not how this is going to work.”    
  
“This?” Draco asks, bewildered.    
  
“Yeah. It’s crazy. I know it is. But,” Harry pauses, leaning in. “ _ This _ .”    
  
“Harry,” Draco hesitates. “You don’t know what...I commited a felony. I’m under court orders to stand in front of a judge after Christmas. You can’t get in the middle of it. It’s serious.”    
  
“No it isn’t!” Teddy calls from the corner of the roof.

He has just climbed over the ledge and turns to help a large, rotund man up after him.    
  
“What?” Draco calls back.    
  
“Not serious. No court case.”    
  
“Smythe?” Draco asks, belatedly realising that Teddy has been joined by the solicitor; he is gazing around at the glow of the surroundings, and Draco gives him a moment before calling again. “Smythe, you appear to be on Harry Potter’s roof?”    
  
“Oh, yes, um,” he stutters. “Sorry, Mr Potter, to have taken so long. The goblins can be quite…”    
  
“Evasive?” Harry supplies.

“I was going to say ‘a bunch of irritable assholes’, but sure,” Smythe laughs. “Anyways, I have it. We have to all be at court tomorrow at noon. You too, Mr Malfoy.”    
  
Teddy and Harry are instantly together in the middle of the roof, dancing around and whooping. Draco is just confused.

“Someone want to explain to me what’s going on?”


	23. December 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extended family is not conducive to writing, an essay.

For many hours that night they sit around Harry's kitchen table as Smythe hands them page after page. Draco signs his name upwards of 50 times. Teddy starts to forget what it was like to be called Teddy as he writes  _ Edward Lupin  _ over and over. 

In the end, though, it fixes almost everything. 

Harry is now listed as both Teddy and Draco's next of kin. Teddy has full control over his own legal life. Draco has denounced his connection to the Black family name. 

Smythe is strangely apologetic the whole time. “I was thinking hard, all those years ago, but I wasn't being  _ smart.  _ It's easier now that Teddy is of age, but still…” 

He also can't assure them that Draco won't be arrested at some point, for the felony crime of pseudocide. 

“I just don't know, to be honest. There isn't exactly precedent here. Most of the time people fake their deaths to  _ get  _ money. Not to avoid it. It might depend on how much the Ministry cares. The bank doesn't. I checked in. They think Teddy is a legal adult.”

It is safer than either Harry or Draco have ever been and they just shrug. Smythe excused himself when the papers were finally finished at around eight, and Harry finds an old bottle of wine right after the door closes. 

“Suppose it should be champagne but…” 

Teddy has one drink then begs exhaustion and heads to bed. He's happy, of course, but he knows what needs to happen here. And he does not want to be involved. 

Harry and Draco sit at the table for a while in an awkward, half-pleasant way, slowly drinking the wine and making small talk. 

“I should go,” Draco says eventually. 

“You could stay?” Harry replies. He tries to disguise the hope in his voice. 

Draco shakes his head. “Not yet,” he whispers. 

He moves to the front door and gathers his coat. Harry follows at a distance until Draco's hand is on the doorknob. 

He surges forward, moves close to Draco, though something heavy stops him from moving into his personal space. “I'm glad you're home,” he whispers instead. 

“Come for dinner tomorrow,” Harry insists. “Just us.”

Draco nods and forces himself to leave. 

* * *

Harry wakes the next morning to an eerily quiet house. It's been quiet for many months at a time. It shouldn't feel strange. But it does. 

There is a note from Teddy on the kitchen counter, explaining that he is at Ron and Hermione's and that he will stay there until Christmas eve when they all head to the burrow. 

It also tells him to check the front entry. When he does, he finds a large, wrapped gift with a tiny tag bearing his name. He moves it into the living room. 

There is a loose brick in his fireplace. It has always been there, ready to be a hiding spot for whatever the owners of the house needed to secret away. He hasn't opened it in three years.  Pulling out the brick now, he pulls the still wrapped gift from its depths and an idea shifts in his mind. 

He wonders if Pansy will help him but doesn't fire call her. He sends an owl instead; he isn't ready to see Draco yet.  All morning, he flies around the house preparing. Pansy quickly agrees and does the shopping for her on her way over. She glances around the room, gives a short nod, foxes a few pillows, then kisses him on the forehead. 

“You've got this, Potter,” she insists, leaving before he formulates a way to protest. 

By the time evening rolls around, he's still running around changing things, throwing things in and out of the oven. Generally in a panicked tizzy. He hasn't  _ intentionally  _ cooked for Draco in a long time. He’s nervous. 

Draco’s knock is right on time, and they sit down to eat with strange, banal pleasantries that aren’t a part of who they are; they’ve never been pleasant to each other. 

“Listen,” Harry finally says, clearing the dishes away from the roast pork and potatoes that are Draco’s favourite. “We need to stop this. This is not us.”   
  
“I agree,” Draco says, standing up to carry dishes into the kitchen. “I just don’t know how.”    
  
“I have an idea.” Harry sets the plates on to the counter and whirls around on Draco, who is holding an empty serving tray that clatters to the floor when Harry drags him into an intense embrace, kissing him firmly and backing them up until they hit the counter. They remain this way for many minutes until Draco pulls back, his hands firmly on Harry’s back still and a grin to cure all ills pasted on his face.   
  
“ _ Merlin, _ ” he murmurs, rubbing his face against Harry’s gently. “I missed you so bloody much.”    
  
“Well that’s endearing,” Harry replies with a laugh, gripping Draco more closely. “Did you only miss me for my body.”    
  
Rather than rebuke him, Draco throws his head back and laughs. “I’ll never admit it to anyone else, but you’re pretty smart, Potter. Fix us with a kitchen snog?”  


Harry blushes, and Draco kisses him again for his adorable humility.    
  
“That wasn’t actually my plan, I promise. It just struck me that I… well, I needed to.” His blush deepens, but he lets go of Draco long enough to reach back to the counter. “Christmas gifts,” he explains, handing Draco an envelope and a small box. “You should open them both. That one’s from Teddy.”    
  
“Teddy?” Draco hummed, leaning on Harry still as he turned the envelope over in his hands. He opens it gently, the way he always opens things; Harry is unsurprised when tears spring to his eyes immediately. He’d reacted much the same way. “Really?” Draco whispers. “Won’t it...didn’t we just fix all of these things?”    
  
“The lawyers insist its’ completely unrelated. He wanted me to ask you before he put the paperwork through.”    
  
Draco held Edward Lupin’s new will. Under  _ Next of Kin, _ he has listed Harry James Potter. 

And Draco Abraxas Malfoy. 

Draco looks up from the paper once more and Harry just nods. He knew the feeling. He pushed the box in Draco’s hand. “Open that one too before you get too upset,” he teases. Draco gives him a withering glare with his glassy eyes. When he opens it, he finds only a simple brass key, attached to a delicate chain. Harry finds he has to clear his throat to work out the lump there. He’s never been good at watching Draco get emotional; the man just wore everything on his face too transparently.

“I had it made...before. It’s a key to the wards. You don’t have to actually use it. Just wear it. It’ll let you into the house and the floo...everything, no permissions. Only Teddy and I have them.”    
  
“You mean…?”    
  
“I mean, I still want you too. If you still…”    
  
Harry is cut off by Draco, who has placed both things back on the counter, and is hugging Harry closely. “Later, I’m going to let you open that thing in the corner, and you’re going to know just how much you just won Christmas.”    
  
“Later?” Harry asks.   
  
“Yes,” Draco says, pulling back. “You’re rather busy right now,” he declares, reattaching himself to Harry’s mouth. 


	24. December 24

Teddy opened the door  _ loudly.  _ He refused to repeat that time when he was thirteen; he would never scrub it from his memory. Thinking back, he decides to cover all his bases and shouts into the house. 

“Hello? It's Teddy? You're young and impressionable teenage child? I'm home! I just came to get my Gobstones because those monstrous children I call cousins are trouncing me.”

“We're in here,” returns an amused Draco. 

When Teddy finds them in the living room, they are seated on separate sofas, gazing at a large forest scene made of glass. Teddy looks at them both, then at the art, with an appraising stare. 

“You were sitting together before, weren't you?” he asks accusingly.

Harry laughs. “Well, we've not forgotten when you were 13.” 

Teddy endures the mocking as Draco bursts out laughing too because, for the first time in years, Harry looks  _ happy _ . He looks his age. Happy, carefree, calm. 

“Are we bringing him to lunch, then?” Teddy asks with a grin. 

Draco automatically groans. 

“Merlin, I had forgotten about that. Do I have to?” 

Harry shrugs, but Teddy answers for them both. “Obviously not. It's not exactly going to be easy, showing up at the Burrow after all this time. No one would blame you.”  Teddy tries to look at his Godfather for confirmation, but he gets stuck halfway when he notices the look on Draco's face. “Uh oh,” he groans, looking at Harry. “Determined face, Uncle Harry.” 

Harry glances at Draco and bursts out laughing again. “Well, that's never good.” 

* * *

Harry decides to ring the doorbell at the Burrow for the first time ever, correctly assuming that dropping Draco into the den of Weasley’s without warning may be a bad plan. Fortunately, Ron—the only person he’d managed to warn—opens the door. 

“Happy Christmas,” he says, crossing his arms to glare at Draco for a moment.    
  
“Ron, I—” Draco begins.   
  
“Yeah, no, we aren’t doing this. Teddy told us all the story. I’m just not Harry. You’re going to need to give me a minute. And mom is furious.”    
  
“That’s fair,” Draco says quietly.    
  
“Hm,” Ron confirms. “So, when are you coming back to the force?”    
  
“What?” Draco asks, bewildered. “Ron, I don’t think the Auror department is interested in hiring back someone who literally fled the country.”    
  
Ron scoffs. “Whatever. You were an excellent Auror. I’ll see what I can do. Come in, you three.”    
  
Harry and Teddy follow Draco into the sitting room, but Draco peels off toward the kitchen, silently rolling up the sleeves of his jumper as he goes. It is getting a bit worn, since he’d practically lived in the maroon cable knit with its large green  _ D  _ for the past three years. When he enters the kitchen, it is to the smell of cloves, the sounds of Celestina on the radio, and the blazing heat of too many pots boiling at once. Without saying a word, he picks up a vegetable peeler that has been abandoned beside a pile of potatoes and begins peeling by hand. 

Molly notices him right away; he feels her eyes boring into the back of his head but refuses to turn around. He simply peels potato after potato, humming the tune of  _ A Warlock Wedding  _ under his breath. 

“Mind you don’t peel away half the potato,” Molly says eventually, placing a bowl of cold water beside his arm and bustling away again. 

When the pile is finished, he drags out his wand to send the peels into the bin, then turns around to asses what his next task can be. Molly silently holds out a rolling pin and points to a lump of pastry sitting on the opposite counter. He rolls it out flat and puts it into the enormous pie plate that he reaches down for her from its high perch above the cooker. As he brings it back to her to be filled with chicken stew, Molly pauses to run a hand over the back of his head, smoothing down his hair and gently tugging the ends. She pats his shoulder once, then turns away from him again.

He breaks down immediately. 

“We thought the worst,” Molly murmurs, wiping her hands on her apron. “I never want to see Harry like that again.”   
  
“I’m so sorry,” Draco laments, unable to meet her eye. “I thought it was the right thing to do. I was stupid.”    
  
“You were, indeed, Draco Malfoy,” she replies harshly. She strides back to where he is standing, though, and bundles him into her arms. She is a very short woman and he has always been tall. The embrace is odd and should be awkward. It is not. “Don’t ever again believe that the right choice is leaving behind the people who would fight for you no matter what. Understood?”    
  
“Yes, Mrs Weasley,” he whispers into her hair. “Absolutely understood.”

“Good,” she says tersely, pulling back and straightening her hair. “Now, you can go get started on those parsnips.”

Draco spends Christmas lunch sat beside Harry, whose hand keeps ending up entwined in his own. At one point, he has both of George’s twins on his lap, and Hugo’s new kitten perched across his shoulders. It is a manic, hectic meal, infused with too much food and drink, many arguments over the mundane and the political, and the cacophony of children being given presents and sweets. It is the loudest room Draco has been in since he left England, even when he includes the days he’d spent last holiday with all twelve siblings home in Kinshuk’s house. Teddy is laughing and light, bubblegum pink hair in urgent need of a trim. Harry is aglow with the warmth of too much wine. Draco can barely hear himself think in between shouts between the Weasley siblings. 

And he is pretty sure he has never felt so at peace. 


	25. December 25, Ten Years Later

“We are going to be late, Draco Malfoy,” Harry calls into the room for the fifth time. “We are going to be late and then our son is going to disown us and when that inevitably happens, I am blaming you entirely.”   
  
“He’s seven,” Draco drawls, pulling himself out of the washroom and picking up his jacket from the bed before casually strolling out to the foyer where Harry is impatiently waiting, bouncing on the balls of his feet.   
  
“I am well aware of how old he is!”

“He’s seven, and he is not going to disown us for being ten minutes late for his Christmas play.”   
  
“Are you _forgetting_ who our child is?” Harry shouts. “Draco, come _on_ . I bet you all the others are already there. We were supposed to leave twelve minutes ago.”   
  
“You know, I think my dramatics have worn off on you this year.” Draco scowls, pulling on his boots and following Harry out the door. “Besides, I believe you are the one who insisted we come home last night rather than stay at the Burrow. We'd be on time if you hadn't forced me to be near all of my clothes this morning. I hate spending time in that Muggle church. It's always too bloody warm. If you'd just let me stay—”   
  
“There was no room. As it is, I couldn’t convince Leo that he needed to come home with us. He was already asleep in the cousin pile. Stop groaning."   
  
Draco grins. “He’s so small amongst that lot. It’s hilarious.”   
  
Harry laughs. “I think he’s more excited than anyone that Victoire is having the baby soon,” Harry agrees with a smirk. He locks the door behind Draco with a wave of his wand and turns to ask Draco if he's ready to apparate. 

“You’ve still got your badge pinned to that jacket,” he points out, drawing Draco forward by the lapels and unfastening his Auror pin before handing it to him. Every jacket Draco owns seems to have a badge attached to it these days. Harry is forever showing up at the office to return one because Draco has left it on the coffee table or in the kitchen or at Harry's office. Draco takes the badge from Harry's hand and he tries to back away, but Draco catches him by the wrists.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” he whispers, kissing Harry gently.   
  
“Happy Christmas,” Harry replies, tucking their arms together as he spins them into Apparition.

* * *

Draco only has two days off; he has to continue the reorganisation of the department now that he is Head Auror. It’s been a hectic month, but he’s excited for the road ahead. Besides which, Harry has decided to take the first month of Teddy's daughter's life off work, so one of them has to stay busy. Draco is still convinced that the two of them will kill each other over the disagreements of child rearing, and he's happy that Leo will be back at his primary school by then, and also that Victoire has her mother staying with her at their house instead of Harry. 

As they land firmly in front of the Ottery St Catchpole church, ready to watch what is sure to be a truly disastrous Christmas pageant with leagues of Weasley’s and their children, Draco can’t help but feel that in this chaos—the life he got a second, third, fourth chance to live—it is exactly what they all needed. 

Outside the doors of the church, Harry catches his hand and they enter together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a lovely Christmas and a joyful new year. And don't attempt insurance fraud. It almost never ends this well. Love, ProfD


End file.
